


delirium

by indiavolojones



Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: F/M, Fuck Or Die, MC is one bazillion percent on board, Mildly Dubious Consent, Public Sex, Sex Pollen, but have no fear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 26,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22672450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiavolojones/pseuds/indiavolojones
Summary: “She doesn't even have a fever." Lucifer sighs. He looks at you, eyebrow quirking, "Unless… you do?"“No.” You cross your arms, giving an exasperated groan, “It’s allergies, guys.Relax.”Then your nose starts to tingle.[In which a Devildom rose threatens your grades, your friendships, and your sanity. Withsex pollen.]
Relationships: Beelzebub/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Belphegor/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Lucifer/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Main Character/Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)
Comments: 249
Kudos: 2074





	1. LESSON 1

**Author's Note:**

> will update rating + have more pairings/tags added as submitted!

You’re doing your best not to blush, but it’s an unexpected surprise to enter the auditorium and see a bright, colorful bouquet on the desk you usually sit at. Only as you near do you see it; a slim, cream-colored envelope with black, elaborate calligraphy on the front. It’s in the language of the Devildom, and therefore unintelligible. It’s gorgeous. You delicately run your thumb under the dark red seal, popping it open. You pull the card out of the envelope. 

"Oh my, I wonder what _this_ says," Satan teases, one hand reaching over your shoulders to pluck the card from your hands. He brings the card over to Asmo, evading your spluttering attempts to grab it back. You cross your arms, dropping into your seat with a huff as Satan waves the card towards him with a grin, “Are you jealous, Asmo?” Asmo scoffs, placing one hand on his chest. 

“Are you mistaking me for Levi?” He takes the card from Satan with a coy smile, “I get flowers all the time. If anything, I’m proud of our delicious human for being so charming that they’ve gained a secret admirer! Perhaps they dream of having a pact with you too, love.” Asmo opens it and they both briefly scan the words. He tilts his head to the side with a frown, catching Satan’s eye. Satan also isn’t smiling at what’s inside the card, and he nods almost imperceptibly at Asmo. 

“What does it say?” You ask, unable to mask the curiosity in your voice. They both look at you, at each other, and then back at you.

“Nothing.” They say in unison. 

Immediately, you scrunch your face at them in confusion. 

"What? Stop playing - " you stand, striding forward as Satan holds the letter in the air. Even though he's the shortest brother, he's still taller than you. It takes him little effort to hold it away. Asmo laughs in delight at the game of keep-away, sliding up behind you and taking the card from Satan above you.

"I'm next, darling, writhe against me next!" Asmo leans in until the tips of your noses are just barely touching. You cross your arms, trying to do your best impression of a Lucifer glare. Asmo blinks, and then laughs mirthfully, “Oh my! Did you see that, Satan? How scary, our little human is…” 

“Forget it.” You could use your pact, but they'd still continue to tease you; you know better than to let yourself get too riled up like Mammon. You throw your hands up in the air, stalking back to your seat. You sink down into the chair, looking down at the bouquet on the desk. You scowl, “Are you going to take this too?” 

More students are starting to filter into the class. Satan huffs, and tugs on the top tip of your ear as he walks by to his seat. 

“No, you can keep that.”   
  


You probably shouldn’t keep it. If Mammon or Levi were to see you holding the flowers, they’d flip their lids. As much as you like to tease them, you’d rather not have to console two student council members in public… and yet, it truly is a lovely arrangement of flowers. You would be remiss of its beauty if you threw it away. Pondering your predicament, you tilt the bouquet side to side, admiring it from the different angles. 

There’s one flower that sticks out amidst the buds - tucked deep into the arrangement, the only one of its kind. It’s basically a rose, but it has several more layers, each a different shade of a maroon to bright red gradient. Maybe it’s because it resembles something you’re more familiar with that you like this flower the best? Either way, you make the decision then and there. Reaching into the bouquet, you pull the lone flower from the bunch. The stem is a bright green, with a strange sticky texture and thankfully, no thorns. You bring the flower to your nose and inhale; but you’re struck with a wave of pollen. Immediately, your eyes water, and you pull your face away to sneeze. 

“ _Achoo_!” 

Sniffling, you wipe at your watering eyes. Alright, maybe you won’t go around snorting Devildom plants. Who knows what this will do to your tender sinuses?!

You tuck the flower into your bag, safe in a scroll container until you get back to the House of Lamentation. After digging around the pantry for something to use as a vase, you find one that’s the perfect size for your small flower. When you’re back in your room, putting the single rose into the vase, you realize how foolish you’re being for a _flower_. 

But it’s beautiful, you sigh. You place it on the bedside table.

  
  
  
  
  
  


" _Achoo_!" 

You sneeze into the crook of your elbow, trying to minimize the following sniffling so as to not draw attention to it. No such luck, as you feel the intense stares of all seven brothers land on you. You slowly pull your face away from your arm to look at them defensively. 

"What?" You ask, narrowing your eyes. Another sneeze is tickling your nose, making your eyes water. The headache you’d woken up with has only intensified with each waking moment with these menaces. The boys stare at you in silence. Lucifer clears his throat, putting down his fork to address you across the table. His voice rumbles around your name, and you feel like you’re walking into a trap. 

“Are you falling ill?” 

As if a dam has broken, they all begin to talk over each other. 

“You _do_ look a little pale,” Satan admits, rubbing his chin. "Sorry love, but _gross_ ," Asmo frowns and leans away from you, at the same time as Mammon slamming his hands on the table. Always one for theatrics, Mammon stands up and points at you, regardless of the fact you’re sitting right next to him.

“Damn it, I told you to wear a jacket!” You want to sink into the chair and die, “You stupid humans are so fragile, I _told_ you - “ 

“How is it that you’re so damn loud _this_ early in the morning,” Belphie stirs from his seat directly across from you, arms curled around his pillow on the table and face mashed into it. He tilts his head, and you see the glint of an annoyed glare through his hair aimed directly at Mammon. 

“Mm, you should have some chicken-newt-eel soup...” Beel’s stomach rumbles loudly from his seat next to Belphie, even after he’s already had two omelettes, an entire loaf of bread, and eight apples. He looks down at the plate of your half finished food - in most cases, you usually end up giving it to him. He frowns a little, wrinkling his nose, and reaches to grab at Belphie’s untouched plate instead. Not that you’d admit it, but Beel passing up on eating your food kind of stings. 

“OMG, this is just like in ' _I’m Terminally Ill But I Live In The Middle Ages, So Instead Of Giving Me Medicine, They Just Keep Putting Leeches On Me!_ ’” Levi laughs on Beel’s other side, pulling out his phone to post about the madness. Satan rolls his eyes at Levi’s words and places a hand on his collar with a sigh.

“There’s absolutely _no way_ that’s a real show, Levi.” Levi _hmmphs_ , and takes a bite out of his toast. 

“You should come and join me for a nap. Sleep will bring your humors back in alignment,” Belphie smiles over the edge of the pillow, and for some reason, the low, sleepy timbre of his offer makes you turn bright red again. Mammon waves a spoon threateningly in Belphie's direction.

"If you think we'll just leave you here alone…"

"S _o you can ravish her yourself, you’ve got another thing coming! Greedy, selfish Belphie! The one that's going to ravish her is ME_!" Asmo chimes in, leering at Mammon, "That's what you want to say, isn't it?"

Mammon immediately splutters with indignation, "What? No way! Why would I want to be anywhere near some gross human germs?"

Asmo claps his hands together, "Then it's settled!" He turns to you, a heated, inviting look on his face, "Don't worry, I'll nurse you back to health with my body."

"She _sneezed_ , Asmo.” Satan says, “It’s not the plague.”

“You don’t know that! One of us has to stop it from getting worse!”

The dining room devolves into chaos again, but you’re not sure if they’re arguing to decide who gets to stay home with you, or if they’re bickering with each other just because they’re all hot messes. It’s probably a little bit of both. Your head is propped up in your hand, watching the madness unfold with a grimace. Seated next to you, Levi continues clicking away at his phone. 

"You don't feel like joining in?" You joke, but Levi furrows his brows at you. 

"Your normie germs rub off on me enough as is. Now you want to get actual human illness germs on me? Thanks, but no thanks." Making a face, he goes back to typing rapidly. It slows after a moment, and he frowns at the screen, before looking at you with a sigh, "I'd come play video games with you though. You just have to wipe off all your sick normie germs off the controller when we're done. Or better yet, you can just watch me play this new game I got."

Your eyes shut in relief as you smile, "I think that sounds far better than Mammon trying to nurse me back to health." 

"ROFL. You'd be dead by the weekend." Levi snorts. 

"Oi, hold on, Asmo!" Mammon slams his hands on the table again, leaning in with a scowl, "You called her gross earlier! Why are you interested now?!" 

Asmo presses his hands to his chest, eyes closing as he's lost to a distant fantasy, "I know what I said, but then I started thinking about spending _all day_ in bed with her… Completely reliant on me to tend to all her needs... I could wear a doctor’s coat. Ooh, no! Perhaps my nurse’s outfit!" When he opens his eyes again, he’s purring the words at you with a sultry expression. “Doesn’t that sound nice, love?” 

Regardless of how used to their teasing you’ve gotten, Asmo can still make you blush with his flirting. He’s told you before that he thinks it’s cute. You think he’s a menace. 

“No one is staying home.” Lucifer says, finally deciding to wrangle the conversation under control. You hope that he can see how grateful you look.

“She needs to stay home and rest!” Mammon declares, and even as you groan, you’re hit with a burst of affection for the idiot. 

“She doesn't even have a fever." Lucifer sighs. He looks at you, eyebrow quirking, "Unless… you do?"

“ _No_.” You cross your arms, giving an exasperated groan, “It’s _allergies_ , guys. Relax.” 

Then your nose starts to tingle. You try to subtly scrunch your nose, but your earlier declaration has all of them looking at you. Lucifer’s cool stare sees right through your desperate attempts to fight off the sneeze, hiding his amusement by sipping at his coffee. The urge grows in intensity, until you can’t hold it in any longer, and try as you might, you fail. 

“ _Achoo_!” 

More silence at the table, until Lucifer nods. “Right. That’s settled, then. You’ll stay home today.” 

“What?!” You say. 

“Mammon, you’re to attend all of your classes and take the appropriate amount of notes necessary for her to adequately catch up. If her scores flag in any way, I _will_ hold you personally responsible and I _will not_ be pleased.” 

You ought to start waving your hands in the air, because you can’t seem to get their attention otherwise, “You really don’t have to -”

Mammon crosses his arms, “What? No way! I should be staying here and making sure she gets.. Water? And bread?” You think about that for a second. What an idiot, but even the voice insulting him in your head sounds too fond. 

“Lucifer, I’m _fine_ ,” you insist, but the smile Lucifer gives you is so chilling you stop. He’s not rough with you like he is with his brothers, but there is an implied punishment in the way his mouth savors your name. 

“Do you think that I would risk _my_ reputation as a wonderful host and the success of Lord Diavolo’s exchange program by letting you be seen in public in anything other than perfect health?”

Your chest rises, and you want to protest - you feel like a child again, and it infuriates you - but Lucifer offers no room for any discussion. He’s immediately addressing the brothers, and facilitating their departure. Less than five minutes later, Mammon is the only one left in the room with you and Lucifer.

"Mammon. _Out_." Lucifer commands. Mammon also looks like he wants to argue, but you know it wouldn’t be a fair fight. You sigh, and shake your head at him. Mammon clenches his jaw, but relents.

Once it’s just you and Lucifer in the room, he smiles at you as he pulls an apple from the basket in the center of the table. You can’t help but be a little sour with him, trying not to appear too childish with the pout on your face. 

“Do you really want to go to class that badly?” Lucifer muses, “Usually it’s the opposite.”

You uncross your arms, getting up out of the seat. “No, not particularly. But it's just allergies. There doesn’t need to be all this… grandstanding.” You roll your wrist and hand with a flourish. 

“Their antics can’t be a surprise at this point,” Lucifer says, chuckling softly. “Not after being here for the better part of a year.”

You give him a wry smile, daring only to be so bold with him when you’re alone, “And yet, they always manage to find ways to exceed my expectations. They are _your_ brothers.” 

Lucifer’s brow arches at your joke, but there’s a quirk to his lips. You cheer inwardly. You have yet to die for your impudence! 

“Now that I’ve made sure no one has thought it wise to disobey me, I will also be leaving,” he says as he heads to the door - as he reaches the threshold, he pauses. His hand on the doorframe, he turns to look at you over his shoulder. Lucifer smiles, and if you weren’t experiencing shortness of breath before, you are now. 

“Feel better.”


	2. LESSON 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Please_ , Mammon," someone says, and distantly, you realize it's _you_. However, you don't ask just once—the pleas fall off your lips like a mantra, words slurring into one another.

You had sensed it at breakfast, the way the fever crept along like it was sampling your skin before it devoured you. 

You hope that it's just a warning to take better care of yourself, and that you'll be able to sleep it off without much trouble. The brothers fuss over you enough as is, and while you enjoy the different types of affection they give to you, the off-putting feeling of being ill just makes you want to curl up and wait out the storm. 

Much to your displeasure, the headache you’d woken up with has increased with just the short walk back to your room. You _hate_ being sick. Cold medicine has mysteriously appeared by your door, wrapped in a little paper bag with a large bottle of water. Condensation still beads on the outside of the cold bottle, and you pick up both with a smile. You're not sure which brother has done this, but you're always impressed by how sweet a lord of hell can actually be. Bringing medicine is so practical, you think it was probably Lucifer or Satan; they seem the most likely to prepare for the eventualities of fragile human immune systems. You try to imagine Mammon, Beel, and Levi navigating a human pharmacy, and can't help the soft snort at the idea. 

Despite your earlier protests, you end up in bed the entire day.

The medication has you drowsy as you lower your limbs into the mattress, cool sensation a godsend. It works for a little bit, but once it wears off, you wake to an even more intense heat inside you. It settles in your chest, it _hurts_ your lungs to breathe, unlike any cold you've had before. 

Dozing fitfully for hours at this point, too weak to get up to take more medicine, you've kicked your blankets to the foot of the bed as even the soft fabric begins to feel abrasive to the touch. Unaware of how much time passes, you drift between distant dreams of your life in the human realm, and the adventures you've had in the Devildom. Sometimes they mix; you’re gifted with delightful, confused little dreams about things like Lucifer sitting at your kitchen table sipping coffee and reading the newspaper, or Beel digging through your desk at work for your emergency chocolate stash.

You're not sure when it happened, but even stripping down to just your underwear and a thin t-shirt to seek relief from the inescapable sensations has not worked to quell the discomfort.

Hours pass—or maybe minutes, who knows. All you're aware of is the growing fog in your brain, unable to move your limbs adequately even as the panic brews. What if you've caught some deadly Devildom disease that's fatal to humans? Should you call them? Fear rises in your throat, and you scramble sluggishly for your D.D.D. on the nightstand.

In your attempts to grab the sleek device, you knock over the vase and the flower drops to the floor. Water spills on your carpet, but you can't find it in you to care. Scooting yourself to the edge of the bed, one heavy arm reaches down to pick up the delicate rose. You don't expect the throb of desire that shoots through you when your hand touches the stem, but once it does, everything clicks into place. 

The heat within you takes a more defined form within you, not just a sauna of tension in your lungs, but now—much like when Lucifer first calls his living, savage wrath ' _Satan_ '—it is given a name. 

_Lust_. 

"Oi!" Mammon shouts on the other side of the door, banging on it—you jerk, but even lifting your head to look at the door takes a momentous amount of effort. 

"You awake in there? I have your damn homework." He sounds mad, and while you'd usually find his frustration amusing, in your distressed state, you can't help the blossoming of relief in your chest at Mammon's presence. It's accompanied by the _lust_ this time, a reckless force now at the forefront of your mind rather than the usual pleasant, warm emotion in your chest when you're with him. 

You want to go to him. You _need_ to. 

The fervor of the urge spurs your heavy limbs to motion, and dizzily, you try to leave the bed. Mammon's still knocking, tapping impatiently on the other side. You manage to get to your feet, swaying as you stumble towards the door.

“The Great Mammon is coming in!” He shouts, and your door swings open. He takes one look at you, and just the sight of him has you sighing in relief. 

"Mammon," you mumble, and then you're falling forward. True to his reputation as one of the faster brothers, it is an easy feat for Mammon to dart forward and catch you in his arms. The second you feel Mammon's body heat close to yours, you arch against it, shameless as you try to press as much of your body to his.

He holds you up effortlessly with his strength, but he's alarmed at your reaction, "What the hell's gotten into ya?"

"I don't feel good," you murmur into his neck, breathing in his scent deeply, and the smell of him stirs an uncontrollable surge of desire within you, "You smell _wonderful_." 

The words don't feel like they're coming from your mouth, slurred as they clumsily fall from your lips. Your hands move from gripping at his shirt to slide beneath the hem, seeking the bliss of his skin. Mammon's hold around you tightens, and oh _fuck_ , you moan against his neck. Your mouth latches onto his skin, right by his pulse point. Your tongue chases the distant taste of salt, drowning in the heady allure of his body soap and natural scent; you bite down, almost too hard. Mammon freezes, and pulls his head back to stare down at you. 

"Hang on," Mammon is bright red, his eyes torn between looking at you in concern—and awe—and looking anywhere else, frantic, "What's going on? What are ya playin’ at?" 

You don't have words to give him, too drawn in by the warmth of his body and the cooling reprieve his touch has brought you. Why use words when you could show him—you press your chest even closer to his, your other hand moving up to run through his hair, and if Mammon could get any redder, he'd be a tomato.

"Oi, oi! What are ya doin’?!"

Mammon's touch drove you to this point. His lack of continuing to do so is sending you into a frenzy, and you feel yourself dragging your nails along the space between his shoulder blades with an increased insistence. Your hands brush past the space where his wings would protrude from if he were in his devil form, and the shiver you feel run through him is more than enough encouragement for your lust-addled brain. 

" _Please_ , Mammon," someone begs, and distantly, you realize it's _you_. However, you don't ask once—the pleas fall off your lips like a mantra, words slurring into one another. 

"I need you to touch me, I don't know what's going on," you whimper, mouthing at the shell-shocked devil's ear. Something about what you say makes Mammon pause, and he uses his strength to pry you off him. He holds you at arms length, still supporting you as he helps you and your wobbly legs until you're seated on the ground. Mammon's on his knees before you. 

You lurch forward, trying to get back to him—to his touch, his skin—but Mammon will not be moved. He frowns at you, and brings his hand to your forehead. He hisses as he lays his palm flat on your hot skin, but your eyes only flutter and roll back in their sockets at his touch. You fall forward as the pleasure throbs within you again at his returned contact. He pulls his hand away, eyes widening even more if possible at the desperate mewl that leaves your lips. 

"I, oh shit," he says, licking his lips, eyes darting frantically from your face to your vulnerable state of undress to the door. 

"I'm gettin’ Lucifer," Mammon's voice is tight, worried, but you barely register the words, "Somethin’ is definitely wrong."

Yes, _you're not touching me_ , you want to whine, but Mammon is already standing, running to the door and shouting into the hall. He doesn't exit the room, too afraid to leave you here in this state.

Without Mammon's arms to hold you up, you slump to lay on the ground, nerves set aflame as you shiver from the sensation of the carpet tickling your skin. Distantly, you hear more than see other people in the room. They're talking in low voices, but your vision is too blurry to identify the brother that picks you up. 

There's a sharp intake of breath from the room when you let out a guttural moan of pain/pleasure when their strong arms pick you up bridal-style. You try to latch onto the newcomer, but then someone is grabbing your hands and keeping them still. Even that sends another wave of want through you, and you struggle against its unyielding force until you're laid back down in the bed.

"What is this?" Someone says, though it's distant and tinny to your ears. 

From your mostly closed eyes, you see the sharp red of the rose being picked up from the ground. Someone is sitting at the edge of the bed, hand pressing against your cheek. Immediately you nuzzle into the hand, but they pull away.

"What happened?" says the voice, a low rumble, not directed at you. More conversation happens around you, but all it takes to distract you again is a hand cupping the back of your head, and your body _sings_ at their touch. Someone presses a cup to your parted, panting lips; the hand in your hair tilts your head back. A cool liquid fills your mouth, the hand in your hair squeezes lightly, encouraging you to drink. In your feverish state, you’d hardly had anything to drink—the liquid is a blessed respite, even if it doesn’t quench the true want in your belly.

Greedily, you finish the cup of whatever they’ve given you, hand extending to grab onto the hand of the person taking care of you. They still under your touch, before squeezing once and letting go as the lights behind your closed eyes swim. Darkness follows soon after.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It _hurts_. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed, but you know you’re begging. Words slipping from your lips, moans of pain, gasping for air when you shouldn’t be out of breath—anything for some relief, a blessed reprieve from this hell. 

The heat inside you is unbearable—it will burn you alive, you are _sure_ of it. The fever from earlier has grown tenfold, all of your skin too sensitive to the touch. Even your writhing is agony, sheets silkier than your own are _too much_ , too soft; the bonds on your wrists are confining and you fight against them. You don’t hear the door open. You don’t realize Lucifer is in the room until he’s standing at your bedside, looking absolute in his grim resolve. 

“You’re going to die if I don’t do this,” Lucifer’s voice around your name makes your body shiver all over. 

It's almost clinical how he’s pulling off his gloves and exposing the pale skin of his hands. He loosens his tie, tugging it off from around his neck. The tie joins the gloves on the desk, and then his dexterous fingers are undoing the buttons to his shirt. In your current state, mind delirious with an unbearable need for _something_ , his words matter little to you compared to the delicious reveal of his chest. 

The bed sinks as he joins you, clad only in his trousers, and immediately, you try to move closer to him. The bonds around your wrists have rubbed your skin raw with the force of your attempts, causing Lucifer to frown. He reaches out to the cuffs—fuzzy handcuffs, likely meant for playful restraint, not the frenzied way you try and throw yourself at Lucifer—and breaks them with an efficient, sudden jerk on each one.

You don’t even wait for all the restraints to be broken, reaching for Lucifer with any new available limb. He holds you through it, even as you brokenly whine against him. The next thing you know he’s lying you back down in the bed, his hand firm as it presses you down by your shoulder into the sheets. 

“I refuse to let you have this memory associated with them.” It sounds like an apology.

He does not look possessive. There is lust in his darkening eyes, but it is not what drives his touch.

Lucifer works your body with dangerous efficiency; it’s overwhelming how his hands roam, soothing your tender nerves with each cooling touch. Even as his hand has slipped between your legs to rub at your clit, his lips kiss yours with a gentleness that your mind is unable to comprehend, your teeth chasing something more animalistic that he refuses to give you. You dig your hands into his back like a beast, clawing at him to bring you closer—Lucifer continues to not give in to your desperation. 

Though the touch of his bare skin against yours is a welcome blessing, the skilled way he plays you like an instrument, there is still a desperate ache inside you to be filled. Arching up against his mouth around your nipple, you mumble the first coherent word amidst your uncontrollable, agonized moans. 

“ _Lucifer_ ,” you beg. Lucifer freezes, poised above you. Something about the way the Devildom twilight enters the spare room frames him in a way that makes him look like the angel he once was, dark hair disheveled from your own scrambling grip, and the brief moment of clarity has you cupping his face in your hand. You’re distantly displeased at how sluggish the action of raising your hand to touch him is, at the obvious delay in the synapses that bring thought to action. The depth of his emotions is hard to understand on a good day—the you in this moment does not have the wherewithal to unpack the flurry of them in his eyes. 

“It is alright if you hate me after this. I will understand.”

You want to say something to Lucifer—you have no idea exactly _what_ you want to say, you’re not even sure you can. Maybe something that would ease the furrow in his brow, the tight line of his lips. Something about how you've thought of this—wanted _him—_ for months. Struggling to pull together words that will relay how you’re feeling, they disappear from your mind with a breathy cry as Lucifer presses his cock to your entrance.

“But I hope you will forgive me,” he murmurs—and then he’s entering you, and everything goes white. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


You awaken to the cool touch of a damp cloth at your forehead. Your head is still foggy, the desire curling low in your belly, but your mind feels clearer than it was before. Eyes fluttering open, you’re surprised to see Simeon sitting on your bed by your side, gloves folded on the nightstand where Lucifer’s had been. 

“You’re awake,” Simeon says, a smile on his face, “How do you feel?” 

_Like shit_ , you want to say, but the answer that comes out is a low moan. Your face flushes, not meaning to do that. Simeon, bless him, doesn’t tease you for it. He only looks sympathetic as he dabs at the sweat on your brow.

“Sorry,” you mumble, eyes closing in relief once the immediate soothing sensation returns. It takes a moment of Simeon just pressing the cloth to your head for you to regain some modicum of calm before you open your lips again. 

“I feel awful.” The strange, warm hum lingers throughout your body, as you look around. You're not in your bedroom, but in one of the spare rooms that litter the long halls of the House of Lamentation—you realize you could be anywhere in the house, and you wouldn't know where, “What happened?” 

The hand holding the cloth stills on your brow for a split second—almost unnoticeable, if your nerves hadn’t already been on high alert. Simeon has excellent bedside manner, and seems to be aware of your condition. In all of his ministrations, he has not touched you with his own bare skin once. He is the very image of serenity as he sits back, placing the cloth back in the bowl of water. 

“An allergic reaction,” he says, and you try to push yourself upright in alarm. Simeon’s hand shoots out to press you back into the bed, the tips of his fingers brushing your exposed collarbone.

“Wha— _ah_!” Another moan is ripped from your lips at the briefest brush of Simeon's skin on yours, your hand immediately coming to grasp at Simeon's wrist. Faster than you can track, Simeon pulls his hand away. The tingling spell broken by the jarring motion, your eyes widen in horror at Simeon. Unlike your first moan, which could be blamed on your pain, this one is unmistakable in its origin. The burst of pleasure you felt at Simeon’s touch is similar to what you'd dreamed about in your fever. A record screeches in your head—it _was_ a dream, right? 

The more you think about it, the more details rise to the forefront of your mind, the more real it feels.

Had it been real? 

Lucifer, gorgeous in the twilight as he undid his tie. His dark gaze as he lowered himself to the bed. His lips forming your name, how he was so gentle as he broke you from your restraints; your chest races as scattered memories of last night plague your thoughts, taunting you with whispers of an unknowable, overwhelming pleasure. But with Lucifer? There was no way it was real. 

“Do not exert yourself.” Simeon says, kind but insistent as he startles you from your daze, “You are still weak.” 

“What’s going _on_ , Simeon,” you implore, fisting the sheets in front of you, and it doesn’t take much effort to morph your expression into one of concern and utter misery. Simeon sighs, and places his hands in his lap. 

“I told you. You had an especially adverse reaction to a Devildom plant," he's not tiptoeing around the subject, per se, but you can tell he's trying to tread cautiously. "You had a rose in your room. The pollen has mild aphrodisiac qualities for devils, almost hallucinogenic qualities for humans, and…" Simeon smiles sympathetically. 

"You just happened to be deathly allergic to it." 

"Deathly?" You cry, your earlier panic returning tenfold. 

Simeon only nods, “They called me as soon as Mammon found you, but my healing powers do have their limits. The fever had to be broken for me to be able to do anything.” 

“Had to be broken? What do you mean by that?” You ask. _You already know the answer_ , a voice inside you whispers.

_—Lucifer’s grim determination as he brings you to the edge, filled with him, holding you as you’re consumed with a frenzied, desperate need. He swallows your cries with his mouth, tender in a way that makes you wonder if it truly was a dream—_

“Even though it was to save your life, there was no way you could consent, not truly,“ Simeon frowns, interrupting your revelation, “Lucifer was adamant that he was the one to do it.” He searches your face for your reaction. 

You let Simeon’s words settle in your mind. You had no control over yourself. It is nauseating, to think that you could have been at the mercy of anyone that stumbled upon you in your compromised state. You can’t help but think about how bad things could have turned out if you’d have gone to RAD and the pollen’s fever had crested there. 

But it was _Lucifer_ , and despite others warning you against it, you trust him with your life. 

Lucifer—with his cold exterior, and impossibly high walls—had done what he could to save you, and save your opinions of his brothers. Your heart breaks for him, for his stupid pride and genuine care for anyone close to him. He didn’t want them to bear the burden in case you hated them for touching you without your permission. 

It’s so _Lucifer_ that you want to scream. 

“Yes, it seems so.” Simeon says, and you blink, not realizing you’d said the last thoughts aloud. 

“Is he here?” 

Simeon shakes his head, “He thought it would be wise to give you space.” 

That’s not what you want. You want to speak to him now, to see where his mind is at; you laugh inwardly at your desire to check on him, instead of worrying about the inevitable fogginess returning to your mind. Biting the inside of your cheek, you know Lucifer won’t show back up until he wants to, so you focus on how to move forward.

“What’s going to happen to me?” You ask.

Simeon glances at the clock on the wall, then closes his eyes to reach out and touch your wrist with two fingers as if checking your pulse. Your face heats at the simple contact, the desire continuing to unfurl from its sleep, but Simeon removes his hand with an exhale.

“The worst is over, Lucifer made sure of that, but you still have to get it out of your system. If you wait it out, you’ll probably continue to feel the urges and be bedridden for another week or so.” 

“A week?” Bedridden, feeling like _this_ for a week? What absolute agony. Your mind keeps supplying vague memories of Lucifer in your bed. While the details are blurry, it’s the horrible pain you’d experienced before Lucifer slept with you that sticks out alongside the pleasure. 

“Isn’t there anything you can do?” 

“Unfortunately not,” he looks genuinely apologetic, “Healing magic is not my forte, and your celestial heritage seems to be messing with its potency anyway.” You mull over this, hands knotting in your lap. 

“Do I have to stay away from them?” _Will you throw yourself uncontrollably at them_ , is your real question. 

“Do you want to see them, even when you’re like this?” Simeon parrots back at you, eyebrow quirking. Your blush grows, and you nod your head. He reaches over to the table, picking up his gloves. Your eyes can’t help but watch the delicate twist of Simeon’s wrist as he glides the black gloves on. They fit him so perfectly, it’s enchanting.

“You don’t have to stay quarantined. They _want_ to take care of you,” Simeon huffs as he shakes his head, “Who’d have thought? An entire house of devils that all want to play nurse.” The idea seems to baffle him, and you can’t help but smile at the look on his face. 

“My only warning is that your arousal will only intensify when stimulated. In theory, you could work the pollen out of your system…” Simeon trails off, and you realize what he’s saying with a growing, furious blush across your face.

“If I sleep with them, you mean?” 

“You _do not_ have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.” Simeon says, firm; then, a little softer, “If you’d like, you may stay at Purgatory Hall with us...?” 

“No,” you say, almost breathless with how quick of a response it is. Your complete trust of everyone in this household astounds even you. Your next words come out slower, as if you’re trying to figure out your emotions as you speak, “I trust them. I…” You falter here, not sure if you’re about to admit your restrained feelings for all of them to Simeon. 

Simeon seems to understand what you’re trying to say, and he smiles, “I will let them know.” 

“Thank you,” your blush has yet to die down, but you know you will be eternally grateful to Simeon for how wonderful he’s been about all of this. He truly is an angel. 

“Sleep for now. Regain your strength.” Simeon says, but you’re not sure how you’re ever going to sleep as even your sheets are too much of a distraction. Just as you’re about to say this, Simeon’s hand is gentle on your face, thumb swiping down the bridge of your nose. Your eyelids close at the motion. 

Simeon blesses you with a push of his magic, and like you’d done once Lucifer had reached into your core and dragged you back from death’s door, you fall into a dreamless slumber. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


The next time you awaken, whatever soothing qualities Simeon’s angel aura had have dissipated, leaving only a steady, solid ache inside you. Thankfully, like he’d said, the worst is over and it no longer feels like you’re about to burn from the inside out. Your room is dimly lit by your desk lamp, silent save for the quiet sounds of a phone game being played. 

You turn your head to the side of your bed to be met with the sight of a fluffy mop of unruly white hair. Mammon is sitting on the floor, back resting against the bed and facing away from you. He shifts back and forth, clearly very immersed in whatever game is flashing on his phone. Reaching a hand out, you tug on a lock of white hair. 

“Hey, what the hell?” He growls, looking back at you. The revelation of you being the one to pull his hair hits him like a bus.

“You’re awake!” He shouts, pushing himself on the bed until he’s on his knees, palms on the bedspread in front of him. 

“You’re awake.” Mammon repeats, softer, and the burst of affection you feel as his face turns bright fucking red is like a firework in your heart. 

“Hey,” you smile, and your hand reaches out to cover his. His eyes are as wide as dinner plates, looking down at your hand and then back at you. 

“Is that okay? Simeon told us—” 

“That _yes_ , it’ll come and go in waves, shut up, I’m fine, _it’s fine_ ,” you huff—even as your face flushes and your heart races—and Mammon narrows his eyes at you. 

“Oi, _oi_ , just because ya got yourself nearly killed doesn’t mean you’re allowed to talk to the Great Mammon like that!” Mammon stands by your bed, suddenly looking awkward. It’s not unusual for him to lay in the bed next to you, or use you as a pillow if he’s feeling particularly benevolent—but you’re both keenly aware of the pollen still working its way through your veins. Hanging onto that surge of affection you’d felt when he blushed, you brave your way through your own nerves and pat the bed next to you. 

“Are ya sure?” Mammon mumbles, looking at you with such unguarded, genuine concern that you want to hold him close and never let go. You don’t think you could smile any wider as you nod your head. 

“Don’t make me use the pact,” you playfully threaten, and Mammon rolls his eyes. 

“Like ya even could in this state, you and your shit magical ability,” he snorts, but then he’s crawling onto the bed with you. He tries to lay on top of the covers, but you lift the blanket and he tentatively, like you’re delicate (which you are), joins you, “How’s this?” 

You lay on your side facing him to make room for as his body settles in next to yours, not fully relaxing as he lays there. You’ve always been endeared to his loudmouthed nature, but the simple, adorable way he seeks your praise is a secret thing, only for you. Teasing him is like second nature to you, just as easy as breathing. 

Shifting closer to him—even as the brush of your arms incites that wicked feeling of lust—is even easier than that. 

“It’s great, Mammon,” you say, and the bright smile he gives you is more than enough to quell any reservations you might have had about what you’re doing.

“O-Of course it is!” He relaxes at that, just like you’d wanted. You flick him in the chest. 

“What were you playing on your phone?” You ask, mainly trying to get him to relax more, but still genuinely curious. Mammon’s eyes light up at your question, and he shuffles under the blankets to grab his phone from his pocket. 

“It’s just some stupid game Levi showed me, but I can’t seem to stop…” he grumbles, opening up the app. He shows it to you, explains the mechanics of it while complaining the entire time. You spend a little time there as Mammon accidentally gets lured into the game, his attention not on you for the first time since you woke. 

“Hold on,” and then you’re rolling to face him, grabbing his arm to sling it over your waist. You almost laugh when you feel the hitching of Mammon’s breath, the stuttering of his initial protests as you shift die quickly when he realizes your goal. Mammon’s arms are now wrapped around you like a protective cage, his knobby (you hear him _indignantly yelling_ in your head), clothed knees knocking against yours as you look at each other. 

“There,” you say, looking pleased with yourself, but Mammon's phone has been dropped somewhere on the bed behind you, forgotten. The heat of his body this close to yours is one of the best feelings in the world, now that you’re able to enjoy your heightened sensitivity without the harsh pain blurring the edges. On any other day (the very thought makes you laugh inwardly, because what’s “ _any other day_ ” in the _Devildom_ ) you would be content to lay there with him, his breathing soft against your hair until you both dozed off for a nap. 

It is not any other day. 

“Mammon…” You say, hands running down his front. You’ve ignored the rumble of want within you for too long, it has become rambunctious as it paces in your lungs. Mammon’s lack of distance has not helped—in fact, it makes you so aware of all the curiosity you’d kept close to your heart. His arms are strong around you, his hand impossibly hot through the thin fabric of your t-shirt, firm chest beneath your own, and you feel _safe_ , tucked here in the duvets of your bed with your “ _first_ ”. 

“Hey,” he asks, “You’re really alright with this?” Mammon looks like he’s about to jump out of the bed, or do something stupid like _stop_ touching you. You reach out with your foot, and hook it around one of Mammon’s. 

Mammon breathes, full of wonder, and _this_ is when you kiss him. 

Mammon gasps when you do, and it’s like a dam has broken between you both; it sets off a dangerous chain reaction, stones toppling one after another. Mammon greedily leans into the kiss, his hand pulls you in closer to him at the small of your back—your free arm reaches around him to thread through his hair. The moan that escapes your lips is too loud for either of you to ignore. You freeze and blush upon realizing it, and Mammon’s eyes are wide. The silence stretches, and Mammon suddenly smiles, mumbling something that you miss.

“..do that again..” 

“What?” Mammon smiles again, and even though he’s got a healthy flush on his face, there is a challenge in his eyes.

“I said, I want to make you do that again,” it’s funny how Mammon mockingly enunciating each word, even ‘you’, makes you exhale audibly. You roll your eyes, but you can't hide the blush on your face or how your hands clutch at his shirt with white knuckled fists.

"Then do it," you challenge, and the determined look in his eyes is similar to the expression he has when he's got some crazy scheme to make money. He leans in to kiss you again, more confident this time—the fact that he was even shy to begin with speaks volumes of how he cares for you. You're sure he's no blushing virgin, not after being alive for so long. Your musings are cut short once your lips connect, however. 

Mammon's lips meet yours, and this time, he wastes no time in taking your lower lip between his own. Mammon is a greedy kisser—but you could have predicted that. To _experience_ it is a completely different sensation, dizzying in his enthusiasm. Mammon kisses you like he can't get enough of you, like he wants all of you; his arms wrap around you again, pulling your bodies closer than before. 

Another gasp is punched from your lungs as his thigh slides between your legs. Mammon's groan when you grind down on it is all the encouragement your lust addled brain needs, and you chase the sound of it. His hands wander over your back until they return to the hem—but it's not enough for you. 

With a frustrated cry, you lean back to wriggle out of your shirt. Mammon blinks at your forwardness, before his eyes slide over the quickly exposed expanse of skin before him. 

"Your skin feels good against mine… I can't explain it, but it helps the ache," you admit, panting as you tug at his shirt. Mammon is terrible at wearing the RAD uniform properly, so some of the buttons on his shirt are already undone. Your clumsy fingers struggle with the rest of them, before Mammon bats your hand away. 

"You're terrible at this, useless human," he scoffs, undoing them for you. Eyes hungrily watching him, giving him barely any time before you throw yourself at him, hands chasing every inch of his body. It feels wonderful to press your chest against his, your nerves singing at the relief it brings. 

"Oh, fuck," you whine, face flushing as the desire throbs between your legs when you grind against him again. Mammon mirrors your fervor, tongue dipping into your mouth when you moan against his lips. 

Mammon, as greedy as his kisses are, seems completely happy to stay where he is and let you rut wantonly against his thigh. He pushes no boundaries, simply allows you to feel him while he holds you close. You love him for how sweet he’s being about it, but you hate how he’s being so delicate with you. Pulling away, you look up at him with your kiss swollen lips, inviting heat in your eyes.

“Take off your pants,” you demand.

“ _Ehhhhh_?” Mammon’s face turns bright red, “What do ya think you’re doing, goin’ around saying shit like that?” 

You accent each next word with a rough kiss to his lips, even as you rise to sit from where you are in his arms, pushing him until he’s laying on his back, “Do I need to spell it out for you?” In a burst of speed, you throw one leg over him so that you’re straddling him. Your head spins a little at the motion, and perhaps it was a bit too enthusiastic of you in your current state to do so. 

“You’d think a girl taking her clothes off in bed would be enough of a hint. I want you to fuck me,” you say, emboldened, and it’s filthy, coming from your lips. Mammon’s face is beet red, speechless, and for a moment, you doubt. Had you misread his interest? “Uh, unless you—” You also turn red, hands rising from his chest in horror. You assumed because of his returned affections he’d held interest in this… but was he just being kind? 

“No,” Mammon interrupts you, hands flying out to grab your wrists. You bite your lip to hold in the groan that almost escapes you at the spark of his touch. “I just didn’t know how far ya wanted to go with this…” He coughs. More fireworks in your heart shoot off, and you smile down at him.

“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” you admit, looking to the side, before shrugging lamely, “I never thought anything was on the table.” What a sight the two of you make--Asmo would make fun of you both relentlessly for your tender hearts. 

Something seems to click in Mammon’s eyes as he witnesses your bashfulness, and the smile he gives you is as soft as his hair, “Well it is. I just needed ya to confirm it.” He nods his head, and before you say anything, he’s switching your positions. It happens so fast that you can barely keep up as your back hits the plush mattress, a quiet _oof_ leaving your lips at the contact.

Mammon is poised over you, like Lucifer had been last night, except he’s grinning, “Let the Great Mammon take care of ya.” Head dipping down to kiss at your collarbone, his hands are braver now, more active as they roam up and down your sides. You arch up into him, a wide smile on your own face as your hands wrap around his shoulders. One hand threads into the messy mop of his hair. 

“Yeah?” 

The look Mammon gives you is dark with lust, and an undeniable happiness, even as he huffs in mock annoyance, " _Yeah_.”   
  
  
  
  
  


In retrospect, there’s no way you would have ever thought ten months in the Devildom would lead to this point. Nothing would have ever given you the bravery to cross this threshold, too caught up in your own fears and doubts. These brothers live in an entirely different world than you, have lived countless years—to even imagine that any of them are interested in your well being is something you’d have laughed at ten months ago.

Now as Mammon holds you as you shake in his arms, cock teasing at your entrance, you’re still not quite sure you believe it. 

"Are ya sure you're good with this?" He asks. 

Growling, you buck your hips up against him, trying to urge him on, "I swear, if you don't fuck me, I'll flip us over and do it mysel—" Mammon chooses this exact moment to push the head of his cock inside your cunt, and a moan is ripped from your throat. Mammon hisses at your tightness, and you can see how it strains him to not recklessly thrust into you. Trembling as he fills you completely, you wrap your legs around his waist to get comfortable while you adjust to his length.

"You alright?" Mammon asks, hands propping himself up on either side of you. He rolls his hips experimentally; you dig your nails into his back, legs pulling him in tighter. At your positive reaction, he begins a slow, easy pace—it’s wonderful, and the fog in your head has become a welcome haze. It makes it feel almost dreamlike, even though you’re able to be present if needed. It also makes it easier for Mammon to drag the small, punched out gasps from your lungs; his thrusts increase in speed, but he’s still careful to mind your human fragility. Focusing on how each thrust is creating the friction you've been craving, you don't realize he's saying your name at first.

"I said, are you alright?" His thrusts slow as he checks on you, and you grind your hips against him best you can in defiance. 

"Please don't stop," you say, breathless. 

Mammon suddenly scoops you up, off of him, and re-positions you both so that you're seated in his lap. Though he doesn’t look as muscular as Beel, Mammon is the second strongest of the brothers, and his strength comes into play as he lifts you back on his cock. Muffling a scream into his shoulder as he penetrates you again, your eyes threaten to roll back in your head at the surge of pleasure. You've always enjoyed the sensation of being filled, but the damn fucking pollen is intensifying it to an almost unbearable level. You barely have to do anything thanks to his strength—you only hope you’re able to keep your cool long enough to not come all over him until he gets closer. 

" _Ah_ , Mammon, _fuck_ ," you babble, grabbing at his hair and around his shoulders. 

Your name spills from his lips, hands grabbing your hips hard enough to bruise, " _How_ are you this tight?" He whispers, bucking his hips up as he stares at you in wonder. You shout his name as you come, your toes curling as white explodes across your vision. 

Mammon fucks you through your orgasm, his arms wrapped around you, mouth crushed against yours. It feels like Mammon keeps you on that precipice of pleasure and pain for ages, even through when your twitching, sensitive body would have usually made you fight to get away from the intensity. Even more astounding than that, you actually feel pleasure start to build up within you again. Sense a little gone with the wind, you have the clumsy thought of _so soon, really?_ about being driven to a second orgasm. It actually takes a bit longer than the first since you're already sensitive, but Mammon is nothing if not enthusiastic, and steady with his thrusts.

Maybe it takes a few minutes, maybe it takes an hour—you have no doubt Mammon or any of the brothers could fuck you for _hours_ —but you come again, pleasure cresting as you drag your nails down his back. You bend your head down, trapping the moan Mammon lets out at the pain with your mouth. You have no idea how long the two of you have been locked together like this; holy hell, you can't believe this is a _mild aphrodisiac_ for devils.

Eventually, Mammon comes as he bites down on your shoulder, and your legs shake at the sensation of his warm cum spilling inside you.

  
  
  
  


_There's no way you can birth the Anti-Christ this way, right_? The thought is so sudden, so out of place, so _funny_ , that you can't help but bite your cheek and grin. 

“Hey, Mammon,” you say, after you’ve both cleaned up a little, basking in the afterglow. You should probably ask him about Lucifer, but you don't think you've got enough energy to unpack whatever's going on with that right now. 

“Yeah?” He stills in his idle tracing of your bare shoulder, sparks of pleasure at each finished circle. 

“Will you tell your brothers to not treat me like I’m about to break? I really am okay. I really do want this. Want… you all,” The last part escapes you in the way that all shared secrets do—it breaks to the surface, unavoidable, undeniable. After a stunned moment of silence, Mammon snorts, his arms wrapping around you tighter. 

“What makes you think I’m going to share you with any of those assholes?!”

You hum, your eyes shutting, “There’s no way they’d let you. Asmo would break down the door before letting you hog me. Besides, I wouldn't be surprised if you all drew straws or something on who got to take care of me first.”

You don't really think the brothers are actually tripping over themselves to take care of you—the image of any of them doing that is absurd. You also don't know if they would want to sleep with you; your only certainty is that you would let them if they did. 

“Not in that way!” He insists, a tad too loud, and if you weren’t so fucked out and boneless, it might have startled you more awake. 

“Huh, so you _did_ draw straws,” you laugh, eyes crinkling with mirth. Mammon stares down at you, lips obviously pursed at the concept of having to share you. 

How fitting for the Avatar of Greed. You nuzzle into his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so the reason it took me so long to update this is that I’ve honestly rewritten this like five times and each time struggled with the flow, trashing each draft—in the end, I realized it was because I was trying to write it like ‘ _sex pollen fuck or die_ ’ + ‘ _each chapter MC fucks a new bro_ ’, but that wasn’t working at all. 
> 
> so now, it’s sex pollen, brief fuck or die, with several chapters of consequences, a dollop of Plot and Feelings, h/c and MC getting treated like a **_QUEEN_**
> 
> I didn’t expect the response this got, and I hope you’re enjoying the ride (ﾉ´ヮ´)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> indiavolojones on tumblr, come say hi!


	3. LESSON 2A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m just offering my services,” There’s still a suggestive tinge to his words, but it’s not as salacious as usual. 
> 
> “Oi, fuck you!” Mammon snaps, “The reason we’re even in this mess is because of you!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I didn't do it for the first chapters, but moving forward if there are any small filler chapters like this, it'll follow in the same way the lesson plans do. so this isn't chapter 3, but 2A! 
> 
> I wanted to add a little more insight as to what's happening around MC while all this shit is going down

Simeon shuts the door behind him, and each brother’s stare is on him as he sighs. They have all gathered here, in the small sitting room before by her temporary bedroom. 

"I’m sorry that I couldn’t do more, but the worst has passed," Simeon says, gaze landing on Lucifer, but Lucifer's expression remains impassive as he exchanges texts with Diavolo. 

"Is she alright?" Beel asks, nervously chewing on a nail. Belphie’s reaches out to take Beel’s hand away from his mouth, holding the jittery twin’s hand in his own. 

"How “ _alright_ ” would you be if you were in this situation?” Belphie comments, but there’s never any true bite when it comes to Beel. 

“She’s a shaken, but otherwise fine. However, until the pollen is gone from her system she won’t be at her best.” Simeon lets his next words mull around in his mouth, unsure of how to say this to the room of seven of the most powerful demons in the Devildom. 

“She is… open to your assistance.” 

There’s an audible exhale from someone in the room, although it’s not quite clear who did it. Levi laughs, clear disbelief evident on his face, “You’re kidding, right? She gets drugged by Devildom sex pollen and then actually wants to fuck all the demons? Is she _stupid_? There’s no way she’s in her right mind, still.” 

Simeon remains neutral, letting his words settle in, “No, the fever has passed. She is lucid, and she said she trusts all of you.” 

Before the brothers have a chance to speak, he addresses Lucifer. "She specifically asked for you, Lucifer—” Simeon begins, but once Lucifer shoots off the last message, he locks the phone, slips it in his pocket and addresses all of the brothers.

"I notified Lord Diavolo of what has transpired. It is of the utmost importance that we keep the human exchange student safe while she is… compromised." Lucifer breezes through his orders, even if there is an almost imperceptible hitch in his voice at the end. If Simeon were a younger angel, he'd have bitten his cheek in annoyance at Lucifer ignoring his remark. After knowing Lucifer for thousands of years, it is now par for the course. 

There is a certain air of deference the brothers give him, even if they rebel in their own little ways—their quips and remarks are subdued in the heavy air until he finishes speaking.

“There are three more days of classes until the weekend. _No one_ can know anything is wrong, but we cannot leave her here alone, as there are those who might take interest in her absence. The six of you will take _half_ days off classes to stand guard.” He looks at each brother, steel in his eyes as he dares them to object. No one outright protests, even Mammon, who looks like he’s got defiance tucked under his tongue. They all seem to understand the gravity of the situation. 

It is Asmo, however, who asks the question aloud.

“Why only half days? If we need to _work_ the pollen out, then surely I could—”

Satan’s arms are crossed from where he’s lounging in an armchair, a few paces away. He sighs, “The members of the Student Council can’t be seen taking any unusual amount of time away from class, it simply wouldn’t be proper. But... it’s not completely rare for us to miss a class or two due to these responsibilities. Right?” Satan tilts his head, giving Lucifer an even, unreadable stare. Lucifer returns the stare with the same intensity, before nodding his head.

“You are correct.”

“And all of _that_ bullshit aside, you’d eat her alive, Asmo,” Belphie snorts, pulling Beel’s hand under his pillow as he lays his head on the table. Asmo sniffs dismissively. 

“I’m just offering my services,” There’s still a suggestive tinge to his words, but it’s not as salacious as usual. 

“Oi, fuck you!” Mammon snaps, “The reason we’re even in this mess is because of you!” 

Asmo flinches back, then he narrows his eyes. A cruel, defensive smirk rises to his lips, but as he opens his mouth to respond, Satan stands up from his seat, “Mammon, there was no way that he, no, that _we_ could have known—”

“Don’t even bother, Satan,” Asmo sneers, “Mammon is just upset that he’s not the one—”

“ _— **Enough**_.” 

All the brothers freeze at Lucifer’s command. 

“I should probably leave, then,” Simeon interrupts, continually feeling like a strange voyeur whenever he witnesses the private interactions between the brothers. 

“I will escort you out. I must meet with Diavolo to explain what has happened in depth.”

“You’re leaving now?” Beel asks. All of the brothers gazes are on the eldest, but Lucifer stares at the door that separates the eight of them from her room. 

“I do not believe I should stay.” 

  
  
  
  


Simeon follows the eldest brother’s quick pace down the hall, but it’s only when they’ve gotten a far enough distance from the sitting area that he reaches out.

"Lucifer, wait, you need to talk to her—"

Simeon catches Lucifer by the wrist—Lucifer snatches hand away as if burned, eyes narrowing at Simeon. Only now that they are further away from the others does Simeon glimpse the fury spilling over in his expression. It startles him, smothering any intent to reach out for the devil again; is Lucifer furious at Simeon for touching him? Or is he furious at himself? 

"She seemed _worried_ about you," he says, soft, as if Lucifer is one of his lost sheep, in delicate need of shepherding. 

"Then she is a fool," Lucifer snarls. 

He turns on his heel, and strides down the hall. Simeon watches his retreating figure, frown tugging at his mouth. 

Oh dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> la di da setting the staaage, setting up future ploooot, whoooo
> 
> Lesson 3 up sooooon o:
> 
> indiavolojones.tumblr.com


	4. LESSON 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Beel,” you say, before you manage to gather the strength to look at his face and realize he’s joking. Laughing, you place one hand on his chest, “You don’t have to carry me.”
> 
> Beel just tips his head at you, “But I want to?”
> 
> And, _oh_. What are you supposed to say to that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> retcons: MC has been placed into a spare bedroom, not her own. I went back and changed the specific details in the original chapters for continuity's sake after i realized that MC has been stewing in the same contaminated pollen-y room. someone would have been like "hey, we should probably get her outta this room and deep clean it...", so THAT'S what happened! I'M THE AUTHOR AND I CAN ~~fix my booboos~~ DO WHAT I WANT, DAMN IT. 
> 
> I wanted to upload a chapter before I left for my cruise, but ah well, best laid plans. Thank you for your patience and I'm back on my shit, y'all (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

"If you could only pick one of us... who would it be?"

Seated next to Satan at one of the wooden study hall tables, you stare over your hand of cards at Asmo. You have no idea how you got to this topic, or why you’re even here right now—well, the cards bit is easier to explain. Satan and Asmo are determined to make you a card shark to rival that of Mammon, even if you barely understand the rules to the game you’re playing. 

Asmo’s question, however, is completely unexpected. Trying to develop a poker face several years too late, you stop your brows from shooting into your hair by pretending you’d meant to narrow your eyes at your cards. Asmo’s no fool; he must have chosen now to tease you because he thinks it’s fun to watch you squirm, both at his words and at the game. 

Playing dumb is risky, because that gives him more room to elaborate on his usually salacious comments. Answering directly, even if it’s a lie, is also not an option, because your answer would inevitably get spread around the group and you’d never hear the end of it. You chew on your lip, deep in thought. 

_Ah_. 

"I made pacts with all of you. That’s my pick,” You say, proud of your neutral answer.

“You wouldn’t pick Lucifer, who’s yet to make a pact with you?” Satan muses, and your face falls as you backtrack rapidly. 

“I didn’t say that— I just, uh…” 

"So choose!" Asmo grins as he leans in, cards forgotten to the side, faces up. A brief glance shows that Asmo has a crap hand; it suddenly makes sense for him to choose now to tease you, when the game isn’t in his favor. 

"I choose all of you, then," you say, helpless. 

"You can’t choose _all_ of us," he insists. 

"Haven’t I already?" You try for an unaffected shrug, but Asmo’s persistence is a force of nature. Like a shark sensing blood in the water, his gaze lands on your growing blush, your inability to keep his gaze.

“Have you?” Asmo’s smile curls up, and fuck, you’re so fucked— 

"Stop letting him bully you. You're almost as gullible as Mammon." Satan gives a long-suffering sigh.

"And _you_ ,” he points at Asmo with the hand holding the cards, making sure not to reveal his hand, unlike _someone else you know_ , “With how this is going, you’re still going to owe me one thousand grim when I win _and_ you’re more likely to scare her into another realm than anywhere _near_ your bed.” 

"If I'm going to be sworn to a human for their lifetime, I might as well have fun." Asmo simpers, shrugging his shoulders in a _can you blame me?_ kind of way. Asmo's words resonate within you, something in you wincing at 'for their lifetime'.

"There’s quite a varying degree from _fucking them to an early grave_ and trying not to lose at cards." Satan says, and Asmo presses his chin into his hand coyly, even as Satan exposes him. "I’m not sure why there’s no middle ground with your innuendos.” 

"I would say _enriching_ the short amount of time they have, but we all see the world differently," Asmo waves his other hand dismissively in the air. You breathe a slow sigh of relief at Satan grabbing Asmo’s attention. The bickering and banter of the two brothers is fun to watch, but deadly to be on the receiving end of. A glance from the corner of Satan's eye tells you that he's done this on purpose, a small, secret smile on his lips even as he exchanges quick retorts with Asmo. 

Under the table, Satan puts his hand on your thigh.

 _Huh_. That's new. 

You blink, looking down at his painted nails. It's hard to visualize the details of his hand, trying to remember the exact shade of green he uses on his nails.. 

This is a dream, you realize—having never been great at lucid dreaming, and despite your attempts to chase the heat of Satan's hand on your leg, you're dragged into consciousness. 

Unwilling to open your eyes yet, you wonder if by falling asleep again immediately you can continue where you left off—the thought is silly, and quite unsuccessful. 

You relive the memory in silence, swaddled in the cool dark atmosphere of the room. Unsure of how you got to these positions exactly, you've ended a little higher up than Mammon, your arms wrapped around him as he buries his face into your neck and collarbone—is that comfortable? Can he even breathe? The even breaths he's taking tell you that _yes_ , he can. You can tilt your head into his hair and inhale the smell of his shampoo, the natural scent of his skin underneath the fragrance. 

It's easy to ignore the insistence of the pollen's call when your body still feels too exhausted by two orgasms and a bone deep exhaustion to really do anything. Strangely enough, you think that if you tried to rally the desire, your loose-limbed body would soon fall in line. But it's best that you don't chase the dragon, or linger too long on the feeling—you are still so very tired, after all. 

The dream lingers at the forefront of your mind. It's a surprise that it wakes you up at all, considering you'd thought you'd have slept the whole day through thanks to your release and Mammon's… attentiveness. 

A flare of panic spreads through your chest as you realize that, perhaps, there is a conversation you should have had with them before you openly allowed them into your bed. Demons don't seem to have any such reservations about who or how many people they sleep with, but you have always tried to be considerate with your partners. Mammon said he didn’t want to share you, but you’re unsure if you’d be able to so happily throw away your affections for the rest of them. The brothers _mean_ something to you, and you're terrified of how your easy dynamics may change after this.

"I can't choose," you mumble in distress, half into the pillow and half in his hair. It's barely above a whisper. To your surprise, Mammon _tchs_ against your collarbone. 

"You're supposed to be asleep," he says.

"I am," you say, petulant, and very much awake. Mammon lets out a low growl, but it's hardly aggressive. It dies almost as soon as it starts, and instead, he sighs.

"Stop worrying so much about it," Mammon scoffs, his hands impossibly warm at the small of your back, you shiver at the sensation, "We know." 

_What_? You tense in his arms, a million questions bursting in your mind. Does he know what you're worrying about? You try to shift in his arms to look at him, but Mammon squeezes, keeping you still. You stifle a quiet moan. 

"Shut up," Mammon scowls against your skin, "I said _don't worry about it_. It's not like you've ever been subtle." A knot that you hadn't realized tied itself in your chest unravels, and you kiss your trembling lips to his hair. A sigh of relief escapes your lungs. You laugh weakly, even as you blush. 

"Am I selfish?" You ask, and it sounds small, even to you. 

Mammon snorts against your skin, "You're askin' the wrong demon." He shifts, "We can figure it all out once ya get this damn pollen outta your system." 

"You think?" You mumble, exhaustion truly sinking into your bones again. It's harder and harder to keep your eyes open.

"Yeah, has the Great Mammon ever led you astray?" You're silent, even as you smile, and Mammon bristles under you, coughing. Mammon rubs small circles into the knobs of your spine, "...Don't answer that. Just sleep." 

And blessedly, you do. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Something smells delicious.

You awaken to the heavy aroma of food, the sound of someone chewing, and a low, angry grumbling from your stomach. Even if you're slow to open your eyes, a wave of soft relief washes over you as you realize who's turn it is. 

Ths coffee table in the spare table has an ungodly amount of food compiled on it. Bags of chips, boxes of take out, plates of full meals—pushing yourself into an upright position, you let out a low whistle at the sight of it.

The munching stops. 

"We're going to get ants, Beel," you grin, and stifle your laugh as Beel's head pops up from behind the huge pile, crumbs on his cheeks. His smile is just as wide as yours as he says your name, getting up off the couch on the other side of the table. Adorably, he wipes his face on the back of his sleeve. Coming around the side, he sheepishly sticks his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

"Have you been awake long?" He asks, staring at you like you're a puzzle he can't figure out. 

Beel is still in the RAD uniform, and like Mammon, he also shucked off his jacket and tie somewhere. The green shirt is a nice contrast to his hair, even if it looks like Beel hasn't seen an iron since his Celestial days. His book bag is tossed carelessly to the side of the table, and contrary to its name, you know from experience that he loads it up with snacks, not books. A snack bag. 

"No, I just woke up. Did Mammon leave?" You ask, looking around.

Beel nods his head with a chuckle, "Lucifer had to threaten to drag Mammon back himself. I've never seen him run so fast after a text message before." 

A glance at the clock tells you it's only about one in the afternoon. 

Mammon must have left when you'd fallen asleep the second time in your post orgasmic bliss. 

Your legs feel a little like jelly, but you're sure you can blame that on the pollen still working it's way through your system. Tentatively, you stretch out your entire body, testing your limbs for any residual soreness—now that your body is beginning to return to normal, you notice your arms, shoulders, and back are stiffer than usual. Stretching feels great in general, but the additional spark of pleasure at the tension is definitely foreign. _Thanks_ , sex pollen, for being a double edged sword in that regard. When you look back at Beel, you realize he's still staring at you, gaze a mixture of concern and interest. 

"How do you feel?" He asks, pulling a chair from the desk to sit by your bedside. 

You test the tightness of your shoulders with a slow roll of the joints, finding it bearable, if quite uncomfortable. You’ll live, at least. Glancing down at your hands, you finally notice what seems to be the only evidence of Lucifer's time with you. 

The light yellow bruises around your wrists look more like they're a few days into healing rather from last night, and you're sure if you peered under the sheets you'd find matching ones around your ankles. Cheeks blushing slightly at the faded memory of trying to throw yourself violently at Lucifer, you shrug. 

"Better than last night," you joke, but Beel doesn't laugh. 

He reaches out to touch the bruises, but then stops as if he's remembering your condition—you grab his hand before it pulls away, placing it on your wrist for him. The heat of his touch sends a tremble through your body, but you're happy to know you are able to ignore the desire in order to check on your friend. Beel's eyes are wide, but he seems comforted by your forwardness. 

"Doesn't our touch make you feel... uncomfortable?" He asks, curiosity in his eyes, and you squeeze his hand. 

"Quite the opposite, actually," you laugh. Beel's grin is stellar in its intensity, as if all he needed to know was that you're alright for his mood to improve. His hand goes to squeeze yours, being mindful of your bruised wrist, in return.

He picks up your hand in his own to examine the bruise, tilting your hand until your palms are upwards, "Simeon's healing powers are truly something." He says with wonder, "They looked terrible last night." 

"We even wondered if Lucifer had been too rough with you—" 

"—No." You interrupt, remembering the way your body had forced you to fight against your constraints, "Lucifer was nothing but gentle, even when I... didn't want him to be." Your face is blushing furiously, and you look down at your grip white knuckled on his hand. 

Beel's head tilts, and the smile he gives is almost sheepish in nature, "Satan said the same. He said that Lucifer would never hurt you without your consent." 

The sentence sends a thrill through you, even as you feel a strange pique of interest at Satan being the one to stick up for Lucifer. 

"Are you hungry?" Beel gestures at the table, "I already started... but there's plenty for the both of us! Or I can get more, since I could probably eat all of this..." Beel's contemplative stare at the pile of food is endearing, and you want to frame this expression of his and have it a copy of it in your wallet. You're also grateful for the change of topic; your body feels the same, if your stomach rumbling loudly is any indication.

Beel touches his own stomach, "Was that mine or yours?" He laughs, but you think it's entirely possible that's a serious question. 

"Mine, you dork," you grin, grip relaxing on his. 

You glance over the surplus of food on the table. It's an assortment of all the various bites you've tried in the Devildom, accompanied by more that you've never seen. It's all solid foods, though—cheeseburgers, bags of chips, a poison apple, instant spicy noodles... your stomach lurches at the idea of putting any of this into your body in its current state.

"I… don't know if my stomach can handle any of this right now," you admit, immediately blanching at Beel's expression. His eyes widen, lips parting—then Beel's frowning. The desperate urge to take back everything you've said bubbles at your throat. 

"I should have brought you soup," Beel realizes, almost upset at the large amount of food before him. He seems gobsmacked that he hadn't considered soup. You remember he had even suggested chicken-newt-eel soup, which you either misheard or it is a truly abhorrent sounding (yet unsurprising) food option in the Devildom.

"Don't worry," you assure him, "I'm sure I can find something here." You look at the pile, ignoring the repeated lurch at the cheeseburgers, but Beel is already shaking his head. He looks distraught, but the furrow in his brow is determined. 

"I'll go get you some," he starts for the door. You wave a hand in the air.

"Beel, no! It's fine, I can go myself," you shift to slide out of the bed as Beel protests, moving to you—your first foot touches the floor, only to freeze as Beel is suddenly in front of you. His arms are on both sides of you, shoulders impossibly broad as he traps you half on the bed. Your breath hitches in excitement at the close quarters, but Beel's face displays no lecherous intent.

In fact, you realize with a burst of affection, that the only emotion on his face is worry. 

"Should you be moving around?" Beel asks, already looking like he's going to try and push you back under the covers and tuck you in himself. 

"Beel," you smile, a hand reaching out to cup his face, "I promise I'm okay." Leaning slightly into your hand, he worries a lip between his teeth. This touch feels natural, your relationship with Beel has always been affectionate. You're constantly part of cuddle piles with him, Mammon, and Levi. 

Any time you're not cuddling those three, it's a sandwich between Beel and Belphie. You've invited Belphie to join his twin and the other two before, but his smart remarks are well-versed in riling up anyone who isn't Beel; keeping your two different spooning groups separate is the easiest way to keep the peace. 

Asmo will join at random intervals, but the social butterfly usually has no time to laze the day away. Places to be, people to do; that sort of thing. Satan is more about direct contact in casual settings. Lucifer… only rarely touches you, and it sets a fire inside you every time it happens. 

The lust in you rumbles agreeably to the thought of being sandwiched between any of them—when did the fever manifest itself as a beast in your mind? 

You suppose it's fitting. Though it's similar to the lust you've secretly harbored for them for months, the pollen inspires urgency that stems from nothing, plays on the internal temperatures of your body, leaves your nerves lit with tension that only their touches can soothe. You’re so fucked. 

How did you _ever_ manage to have yourself near any of them without throwing yourself at them? The concept seems impossible in your current state. 

(You know the answer: fear and doubt. Your insecurities kept your feelings hidden under your tongue. The placating lie you told yourself, tucked between your boys for a nap, or seated close at their sides— _this is enough_. 

Well, the lie has been blown out of the water. 

Now that you've known some of their touches, it will never be enough.) 

Beel stares at you for another moment. You almost think you haven't convinced him, but then he nods and backs off you. He doesn't stray too far as you slowly move your other leg off the bed. 

Muffling the groan at the soreness of your limbs—Beel would never let you leave the bed if he thought you were in pain—you attempt to stand. It takes more effort than you thought it would to stand on your wobbly legs, and at a sudden dizzy spell, you take the hand Beel offers you as you rise. With each passing second, Beel looks less and less inclined to believe your placation as the two of you make your way to the kitchen

Beel laces his fingers with yours, your hand looking delicate and small in the other's larger one. The trembling of your legs stays reasonable until you get to the end of the hall, each step becoming more and more arduous. 

As much as you hate to do so, you stop and place a hand on a nearby table, "Hey, give me a second, Beel." You try to relax your limbs, but as the pollen continues to work out of your system, you are faced with the consequences of its strain. 

“Hm,” Beel says, and you barely have a moment before, “Wh— _ah_!” 

Beel scoops you up into his arms, bridal style. Your face immediately burns bright red, flailing a little as your legs are swept out from under you. Beel’s strong arms are solid under your legs and around your back. His hand is splayed out on your side—you wonder if he can feel your heart stuttering in your rib cage.

“I could throw you over my shoulders, but I thought this might be more comfortable,” he says, and you’re gobsmacked, lost for words as he holds you close to his chest. You’ve had more vulnerable moments in the last several months than you’ve ever had in your life, but nothing has shaken you like how it feels to have Beel lift you up like you weigh nothing. 

You suppose you do weigh nothing to the brothers and all their demon strength. It makes you blush more to consider it. 

“Beel,” you say, before you manage to gather the strength to look at his face and realize he’s joking. Laughing, you place one hand on his chest, “You don’t have to carry me.” 

Beel just tips his head at you, “But I want to?” 

And, _oh_. What are you supposed to say to that? 

The House of Lamentation is blessedly quiet as he carries you the rest of the way. Beel’s long legs travel much faster than your sluggish pace, and it’s not long before you’re being brought over the threshold into Beel’s most frequented place in the home. 

“You can just put me down, I’ll— _okay._ That works too,” Beel delicately places you on the countertop, a couple feet away from the stove. Blinking between him and the four perfectly good chairs at the small kitchen table in the center of the room, you tilt your head. 

“I’m making you soup, but I also need to keep an eye on you.” Beel says, grabbing a large pot and drizzling the bottom of it with oil. He turns on the stove, letting it heat. Next, he heads to the fridge and props open the door. There’s various clinks and shuffling noises as Beel digs around the cold storage. 

With an exasperated sigh, you throw your hands up, “I can sit at the table just fine, Beel.” 

“I know,” Beel grins as he turns around, holding up a handful of ingredients, “But I like having you near me. Grab me that cutting board?" 

Your cheeks heat at his comment and how his name sounds coming from his lips, obediently reaching to your right to pull the cutting board from its hanging location on the wall. Beel gets to work, and for a moment, it’s fascinating to watch him prepare something, rather than eat it.

However, it only takes a little time before you realize why Beel doesn’t often get put on cooking duty—for each ingredient he cuts, he ends up taking a bite. The large pile of resources that you’d thought might be too much for you ends up actually becoming a much smaller, more reasonable pile of prepped ingredients. You stifle a laugh by biting the inside of your cheek, and lean back to just enjoy Beel work. 

Beel’s rolled up his sleeves to keep them out of the way, and you find yourself admiring the athletic flexing of the exposed skin, how he deftly chops and dices with the knife. Asmo’s wrists are so delicate by comparison, but both of them are appealing in their own ways.

“Hey,” Beel says, and you realize he’s staring at you, “Open your mouth.” 

Your lips part, and if Beel blinks at how quickly you obey, he doesn’t comment on it. Although you’re not quite sure what you expected anyway, the bite-sized piece of carrot Beel puts into your mouth surprises you anyway. The tips of his fingers brush your lips, and you can’t help the quiet exhale as pleasure bursts at the contact. Your tongue wants to dart out, chase the taste of the sweet vegetable off the pads of his fingers, but Beel’s hand has already pulled away. 

“It’s good for your eyesight,” he says, and then goes right back to prepping the food. You don’t have it in your heart to tell him that’s not scientifically true, but also, you’re still a little caught up on the brief sensation of delight. Smiling, you chew on the carrot. 

Beel, true to his nature, takes several breaks in between cooking stages for a snack. Raiding the cupboards and the fridge, he offers you bits of each snack, split between disappointed and relieved when you reject them due to your stomach lurching. Even the smell of chicken being cooked in a shallow pan is almost too much for your stomach, and _oh no_ , what if you can’t eat what he cooks for you? 

You don’t know if your heart could handle saying no to him. Not after he’s gone to all this work for you. 

  
  
  
  
  


You needn’t worry.

Beel places the bowl in front of you, and your eyelids flutter at the heavenly aroma of the steam that rises to your nose. It’s some kind of a chicken rice soup—with some strangely shaped bits in it… probably the newt, but you can eat around it. Maybe several months ago it would have made you blanch at the meal, but unusual ingredients are par for the course around here. You would have starved months ago if you couldn't adapt. 

Your hand shakes as you bring the spoon to your lips, and when you swallow, there's an unusual burst of pleasure as the warm liquid rolls down your throat. The foreign tingling aside, the soup sends a surge of warmth through your body—unlike the terrifying, destructive heat from last night, this brings you an overwhelming sense of peace. Face heating, you place the spoon back in the bowl. 

"Beel," you mumble, and you've never seen Beel stop eating as fast as he does when you say his name like that. His eyes are immediately concerned, watchful as they look over you. 

"Too much?" He asks, chewing on a lip. 

"No," you say, even as you're slightly flushed. Beel doesn't look convinced. He's so much taller than you, massive even as he sits down in the chair at the same level as you. Beel and all his gentle giant ways is going to be the death of you, “It’s _delicious._ ” 

You don’t understand why there’s so much raw emotion in your voice, why it’s all overwhelming _now_. Tears spring to your eyes, unbidden—why has this happened? 

Beel’s soup is delicious, but it’s nothing to write home about. It’s soup, for heaven’s sake. But maybe the fact that it is just soup, warm and comforting and soothing in a way that doesn’t require the touch of another person is exactly what’s set you off. You scrub at your eyes with the back of your hand.

Something about the soup spreading an intentionless warmth through you brings the aching of your body into a sharper contrast. If you thought you’d been stiff when you woke up, it’s nothing to the aches of being awake for so long. 

“I should take you back to your room,” you can tell your sudden burst of emotion has shaken Beel, and you work to keep your emotions in check. 

“No, it was just,” you struggle to find the words, “I was surprised.” 

“That I can cook?” Beel asks, like he’s not sure if he should be offended by it. 

“No,” you laugh, “I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It’s like… your soup is so good that it made me realize how sore my body is.” Beel looks alarmed, and you hurry to continue, “I know it’s probably just the kind of sore that you feel when you’re sick, I’m just being a big baby.” You give him your best convincing grin. It’s not that great. 

Beel is quiet for a long time, long enough that you almost open your mouth to fill the awkward silence. 

“Do you not remember, then?” Beel asks, too quiet. 

You freeze, terrified at the endless possibilities of his words.

"Remember what?"

"Fighting us?" 

Oh. You furrow your brows. Do you? 

Well, you sort of do. You remember desperately seeking any kind of relief, struggling against restraints; then it clicks into place.

The bruises on your wrists, your aching, stiff limbs, the exhaustion you can't seem to shake—

"I… hadn't realized the extent." 

Beel looks down at his plate, mostly empty, "You're just a human, so it's not like you could've hurt us. We were more worried about you." He glances up at you, then. 

This is why they're treating you like you're about to break—because not only did they almost lose you, they had to protect you from yourself as well. It's only natural to wonder what the effects of your urgent, unrestrained struggle would be. 

Apparently, the most lucid part of your night was tame by comparison; what you'd thought was the worst of it—throwing yourself at Lucifer despite your restraints—was relaxed. You harbor the dreamlike memory of dragging your nails down Lucifer's back, holding none of your force back. Had you hurt Lucifer then? Had you broken skin? There is no evidence under your nails, but that doesn't mean it's impossible. 

"My shoulders ache. My neck is sore." You confess. Beel stands abruptly, and you startle back to look up at him. 

"Eat," he commands, but how the hell are you supposed to do that when he's walking around the table to you? Beel moves to stand behind you, and you resist the urge to crane your neck to look up at him. 

"Beel—" But you're cut off by his big hands coming to rest on your shoulders. His grip is firm, and you're doubly confused until he presses his thumbs into your shoulder blades. You muffle a surprised moan of pleasure as Beel massages into your back. Beel's gentle, steady ministrations on your aching body are a welcome blessing.

" _Eat_ ," he murmurs again, and you take the spoon in one shaky hand. You're going to die. Beel's going to massage your knots, and the rest of you, out of existence. 

Eating is a fanciful idea, one that gets pushed to the side as Beel continues to work at your knots. He's rather good at this, he knows the locations of each muscle and at your encouragement, he knows exactly how tender or forceful to be with it. He listens attentively to the way you hiss or gasp at each spot, adjusting his firmness accordingly. 

You manage to make it through a good amount of the bowl in front of you, even if the experience has been peppered with quiet, escaped moans. Beel hits a spot by your shoulder blades that has you see stars with how good it feels, and the spoon clatters in the mostly empty bowl when you let go. You slump forward, arms crossing in front of you and pushing the bowl to the side as Beel's enthusiastic thumbs chase the knot. 

“Hm,” Beel is frowning, you can hear it in his voice. Clearly, he doesn’t think you’ve had enough to eat yet.

Food forgotten to the side, it becomes harder to hold on the moans. Beel has allowed you to stop eating, and when you lean forward to lay your head in your crossed arms, it gives him more access to rub further down your back.

You can’t bite back the rush of shame you feel as Beel works the quiet choked moans from your tender body. Beel is being so gentle with you, but you’re at a loss for the growing desire pooling in your belly. 

"If it hurt this much, you should have told me." Beel says, sterner than you’ve ever heard him. 

"I didn't realize," you shrug, "I don't want to worry you more than I already have." Beel's hands still. You almost turn to look up at him, but then his hands are returning to rub at a particularly difficult knot, and you mewl on the spot. You choke on the noise, attempting to suffocate yourself as you try to hide your burning face. 

"I'll worry anyway," he murmurs, "Humans are so fragile. I'm barely using any strength with you and I feel like I'm going to break you."

You can't help the blissed out laugh, "I think you already have. How are you so good at this?"

“I play sports. Belphie helps me work out knots sometimes. Asmo’s also great at it, even if his hands wander.” You glance back, and Beel is rolling his eyes. His hands squeeze a little tighter, “How do your legs feel?” 

You should tell him that they’re fine. A little wobbly, but fine—you look back at him again, and there’s a clear invitation in his eyes. Your lips part, but you smile. 

  
  
  


Beel manages to work some unknown, hidden tension out of one of your thighs before you stop him with a gentle hand to his cheek. He looks up at you, seated on the table as he’s taken your empty seat, and his lips part. A blush ghosts the tops of his cheekbones, and he smiles at you. 

Your body moves before you can think twice, and you lean in to kiss him. 

While that would have been more than enough for your tender heart, to have him help you back to the bedroom where the two of you could playfully chat while he ate the rest of the food he’d brought… It isn't enough today. 

Already worked into a near frenzy by the other’s excellent massage, you deepen the kiss by darting your tongue out to lick at his lips. Beel’s lips part to let you in, and soon, you’re drowning. Beel’s kisses are like being devoured, he’s tall enough that he only has to straighten his back to kiss you, even as you’re seated at a level above him. He nips at your skin, his hands roam your body with a voracity that you’ve only ever seen him treat food with. The thought almost makes you laugh, but then Beel is sucking on your neck and you moan. 

It’s impossible to miss Beel standing, because soon he towers over you, hands propped on the table on either side of you. 

“Beel, wait, _Beel—_ ” 

“Do you not want me to?” Beel asks, but he’s tugging at the hem of your shorts, “Your kisses are sweet. I want to know what the rest of you tastes like.”

“We’re in the _kitchen_ ,” you whisper, as if anyone is actually home right now. 

Face a furious shade of red, you allow him to pull the shorts off. He tosses them to the side, before he moves to sit back down on the chair. He scoots in, holding your legs apart and on his shoulders. The tips of his fingers tease the edge of your underwear, and he smiles, slow and enticing. 

“What better place for a meal?” 

  
  
  
  
  


"Beel, you've—ahh, oh shit, you've gotta stop! I can’t take anymore,” you cry, trembling under his attention, trying to shy away from his insatiable mouth and insistent fingers as they curl inside you. 

Eventually, Beel drags his lips aware from your quivering cunt, your wetness glistening as it drips down his chin. He brings a hand to his face, swiping your slick with his thumb into his mouth. The digit makes a popping noise as it leaves his mouth after sucking off the taste of you. 

"You taste _so_ good," Beel mumbles, "If I'd known how delicious you tasted before, I might not have been able to hold back." You're not sure what he's referring to, exactly, but then Beel is standing, and you see him unzip his pants. 

Your mouth goes dry. 

Beel is easily bigger than anyone you've ever been. A spike of fear passes through you—his cock couldn't _possibly_ fit inside you. And yet, no refusal springs from your lips. You kiss him again, your fingers messily scrambling to undo the buttons of his uniform shirt, but you get distracted by the desire to explore his exposed skin with your hands. He manages to pull your shirt above your head, and it gets tossed to the side, forgotten. 

Your cheeks are hot to the touch, and you shiver when Beel presses the head of his cock to your slit, covering it in your slick. He inserts two fingers into your cunt, and it startles a gasp out of you. Beel's fingers only pump in you for a few moments, before he pulls out to spread the wetness over his length. 

This time, when he readies himself at your entrance, you force yourself to exhale and relax your body. The two orgasms Beel worked from your body with his mouth and fingers have you feeling a delirious mixture of loose and sensitive. The head of his cock pushes into your cunt, and you keen quietly. 

Digging your nails into his back as Beel thrusts at a measured, careful pace, his breath catches in surprise. 

"S-sorry," you mumble, and Beel shakes his head. 

"It's fine, I just wasn't expecting it," Beel says in return, but his voice has deepened to just barely above a growl. You swallow at the sight of his pupils blown, hunger in his gaze as he stares at you on the table. 

Beel slowly, steadily, pulls out, before pushing in again in a shallow thrust. You bring one of the hands from his back to bite against your knuckles, but Beel takes the hand away. 

"No," he says, "I like hearing you." He brings your palm to his mouth and kisses it, before pressing a nip to the pads of your fingertips. You want to say something in return, but Beel continues his careful work of stretching you to fit his cock, and you can't seem to remember what it was. 

"Too much?" Beel asks, a tremor in his voice at your tight heat, even as he rubs soothing little circles into your hip bone with his thumb. It's almost too much. You knew just by looking at Beel's cock that he's thicker and longer than anyone you've ever been with, but to feel the slow drag of it inside you is a completely different story. 

"Please," you choke out, "I want—" your voice hitches on a sob. You need Beel to stop asking, you need them to all stop asking, to stop treating you like you're fragile, delicate. 

You need him to fuck you. 

Beel either sees something in your gaze or finally gives in—maybe a mixture of both—but he grinds his hips in until he's fully seated within you. 

A pleasured scream rips from your lips, your hands flying up to muffle the strangled noise. You throw your legs around him, pulling him in closer, deeper—the last thing you want is for Beel to think he's hurting you. You think it would hurt more to _not_ have Beel's huge cock inside you. The pollen adds a dull haze to the edges of your senses, and while this is less time than you'd usually take to prepare for someone as big as him, it also adds a frenetic urgency to all your motions. His hands move to either side of you, propping himself up as he hisses at the sensation of your tight heat. 

Slowly, he moves. You shiver and writhe at the drag of his length against your walls, twitching around his girth. The pollen beast is singing, overjoyed that yes, _this_ is what you wanted. 

Beel grunts as he slides one hand under the small of your back, pulling you closer onto him. Beel always wants to bring you closer to him; whether it be when the two of you are curled in a bed together for a nap, or this newfound experience of your bodies being joined. 

The act lifts you off the table, the new angle causing another higher pitched mewl to spring from your lips. You shift one of your legs up until Beel catches it, and he lifts it to rest on his shoulders. 

"Beel, that's—oh, _hell_ ," you cry, hands scrabbling to grab onto something, _anything_ —it ends up being Beel's arms as they grip your waist, helping his rhythm. 

Beel is quieter than Mammon. While Mammon had cursed and tried to stifle his vocal moans, Beel's grunts are quiet, highs punctuated by exhales too soft to be gasps. 

You, by comparison, are lucky that no one else is home. If anyone had been here, they'd surely have heard your strangled shouts of pleasure as Beel fills you with his thick cock. 

"I'm going to cum," you realize, eyes flying wide open, and then you're batting at Beel's arm, trying to shift your leg off his shoulder. Startled by your reaction, Beel allows your leg to drop and moves his arm—immediately, you try and pull him down towards you. There's an awestruck smile on his face as he lowers himself down to where you can wrap your arms around his neck and pull him close. 

You wrap your legs around him again, completely opening your body to his thrusts. Desperately, you chase the third orgasm, but it's difficult after Beel's made you cum twice already. You want to laugh hysterically, tears escaping from the corners of your eyes. Beel bites at the soft flesh between your shoulder and your neck. It's almost like he's chewing on you—the thought would be adorable if it Beel wasn't fucking the air out of your lungs. 

You struggle to bring one hand between your bodies, a sob spilling from your lips as you messily stimulate your clit. The space where you're connected is dripping with your slick, just your apparent shared wonder at how aroused you are is enough to bring you to the edge. 

"I'm cumming—" you shout, your body tensing violently with pleasure. Beel hisses as your walls contract around him. Beel fucks you through your orgasm, slowing down when it becomes too much and you start to push feebly at him. 

"Do you, _ah_ ," Beel's breath catches at another contraction of your cunt, "-need me to stop?" He doesn't look like he wants to, but he also doesn't want to hurt you if you become too sensitive. 

_Yes,_ your mind wants you to say—but your legs spread of their own volition, and Beel's eyes widen. The dull fire of your orgasm is stoked with each thrust, even if you doubt it could be brought to a full flame. 

"As long as you don't mind if I just lay here," you mumble, even as your hands lovingly roam the exposed skin from his open shirt. 

Beel laughs, and as it rumbles through his chest, it echoes through your entire body.

  
  
  
  
  
  


"We're going to get in _so_ much trouble," you slur, uselessly laying on the table, an unsuccessful fourth orgasm attempt from Beel later. Not that you're complaining—three was plenty. Beel's blushing as he cleans up around you, wiping your combined slick from between your legs, the table, and where it's dripped to the floor. 

"I'll come back and disinfect everything later."

Beel's massage has taken a lot of the tension out of your body, and the sex had decimated any memory of your previous soreness. You're sure it'll come back later, but in the meantime, you're content to let Beel move you around. 

Stretched to your limits, fucked out and dazed, Beel scoops you up into his arms one more time to carry you back to the bedroom. This time, you're simply content to twist your arms around his neck and press lazy kisses to his pulse.

He deposits you gently on the mattress, throwing the blanket back over you. 

"Will you be here when I wake up?" You ask, already relenting to the waves of exhaustion crashing over you.

Beel glances at the clock to the room. 

"Simeon gave us strict instructions as to how much physical activity and rest you need…" It's probably for the best. After experiencing Beel, the lust does not feel sated, so much as temporarily subdued as it regroups—the haze in your mind craves more of him, even if your body does not know if it can handle that. 

"That's alright," you sigh, "Will you hold me, then? Just until I fall asleep? Or until you get hungry again?" 

"Yeah," Beel says, you knew he wouldn't say no, but the relief is there all the same; then he's climbing in the bed to join you under the covers. 

This part is easy, like breathing. Beel has crawled into your bed many times before. There are nights where he will knock on your door, mumbling sleepily about a nightmare. On these nights, you fall asleep with his head held close to your chest, reassured by the steady beating of your heart. 

The difference between those nights and tonight, Beelzebub is protecting _you_. 

A hulking giant by any standards, human or demon, he settles into the bed in a way similar to a large dog incorrectly believing they are a smaller lap dog. With you both on your sides, he pulls your back to his chest. He tucks himself around your body like a cocoon, shifting until he rests his chin on top of your head. 

You would never tell the brothers you favored any one of them more than the others—and you _don't_ —but there's a soft, special place in your heart for Beelzebub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the, ahem, luck (?) to experience what I feel are similar symptoms to what MC is experiencing thanks to a delightful, horrible mix of intense seasickness, alcohol, and determination to sleep with my partner on our lovely vacation to the bahamas. (I told him, "thanks for helping me write believable mildly inebriated/feverish sex descriptions" and he went "...you're welcome?" Some may call this a TMI, I call it *research* and *dedication*.)
> 
> this chapter was originally supposed to have two brothers, kind of like how the other one had Lucifer+Mammon, but then Beel's bit came to about 7k and the next brother has at least 5k.... so it'll be uploaded in the next few days. THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR COMMENTS AND LOVE. You have no idea how light my lil heart feels @ them, I am on cloud NINE!!! your continued kind words fuel my writing process. 
> 
> As always, indiavolojones @ tumblr!


	5. LESSON 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your words are bold, bold enough to make Belphie suck in a breath through his teeth. He laughs, then, but it’s too low to be anything but dangerous—
> 
> “I guess it can’t be helped,” Belphie whispers in your ear. 
> 
> “I’ll take _good _care of you.”__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you remember when I said “a few days” for this? Well, the best laid plans.Time doesn’t exist in quarantine.
> 
> Before reading this chapter, pls check [this link of canonlucidia’s headcanons for the boys/special abilities](https://morningstar-descended.tumblr.com/post/614808679550779392/so-there-are-positives-to-being-cardinal-sins) they have thanks to their rank and it’s relevant to plot! At least belphie’s is, in this context.
> 
> [ALSO!!! THERE’S FANART!!!!](https://twitter.com/ddretyi/status/1253077925206900736?s=20) I AM BLESSED… hhh beeeeel
> 
> And [also this,](https://indiavolojones.tumblr.com/post/617186350758871040/my-friend-doesnt-play-obey-me-but-i-keep-sending) because it made me laugh. anyway, thank you for your patience with me! (￣▽￣)/

Locked. 

Each door of the House of Lamentation is _locked_ , regardless of how violently you struggle with the knobs, pounding sluggish fists against the surface. This wing of the house isn’t familiar, even though the walls and carpets are unmistakable. You haven’t been this disoriented since your first month in the manor, dragging your heavy limbs down the halls. 

The air is _too hot_ in your lungs, each labored breath burning you from the inside out. Sweat trickles down your back, wetting your brow as you beg to anyone who will hear your pathetic cries, “ _Please_ , someone—” 

Knees buckling as your legs give out, you sprawl to the floor. Uncontrollable tremors wrack your body, tears streaming down your face, you dig your hands into the carpet. It’s impossible to ignore the fever—the ferocious, suffocating heat bearing down on your senses, intensifying with each panicked scatter-thump of your heart. Digging your nails into your chest, panic courses through you as you search for the strength to push yourself upright. 

What’s going on, why does it _hurt_ , where _is_ everyone—

“ _Your dreams are noisy._ ”

—a voice says, clear and sharp as it cuts through the panic. The cool touch of someone’s hand presses against your forehead, the relief flooding your body like an unknowable drug. Your eyes flutter shut, the high-stretching walls of the home dissipating into a pleasant, heavy darkness. 

“ _Our magic doesn’t work on you, so I can’t do too much.._.” The voice is familiar; a low, sleepy drawl curls around you, _“I guess it can’t be helped_ ,” the hand brushes a lock of hair from your face.

“ _I’ll stay and keep them away for a little while_.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, breathing easier at the silence brought to your dream.

The voice sucks in a breath, as if surprised to hear you respond, but it says nothing else. As the silence builds your dazed curiosity, you attempt to crack open your eyes to seek the source—but the reassuring touch on your forehead moves to cover your eyes.

“ _Go back to sleep_ ,” the comforting voice murmurs your name, and while you don’t feel the tingle of any magic forcing you to do so, you’re lulled into dreamless rest all the same. 

With a frustrated sigh, you peek your head out of the comforters. 

You can stare at the insides of your lids and refuse to move as long as possible, but you can’t fool yourself. As preferable as sleeping through this entire ordeal would be, you're rested enough that once you’re awake, you can’t fall back asleep. 

Besides, barring your distant awareness of a forgotten nightmare, you’re more well-rested than you’ve been in weeks. Tentatively stretching out your limbs, you praise Beel’s excellent massage skills.

Combined, you find that you’re in much better shape than you were yesterday, only feeling the bearable hum of an ache. Simeon was right in what he’d said about _working out the pollen_ , but even _thinking_ his name has you blushing madly. You’re not sure how you’ll ever be able to face him at RAD again, now that this has happened. 

To distract yourself from your embarrassment, you look around for your DDD. 

The bright red phone is plugged into a charger as it rests on the nightstand, and you reach out to check your log of unread messages. An obnoxious amount of notifications has filled your inbox, and you can’t help the snort that escapes you at how clingy they all are. 

Beel sent you a simple _I hope you slept well_ , to which you respond with the simple emoji of a demon blowing a kiss. A moment passes where you hold your hand to your face to fondly remember how gentle he and Mammon have been with you. 

Simeon's checked in on you, and you reply with a few lines about how your body is feeling: still sore, much better, _yes_ _really_. Solomon sent you a picture of Asmo sitting alone at your desk, and you muffle a fond laugh with your hand to see that Asmo looks like he's _sulking_ , almost. Luke has sent four messages about baked goods he’s sent for you with Beel, with explicit instructions to not let Beel eat them all. 

You have no idea where they are, so Beel must have eaten them. 

(Truly, that’s on Luke for letting Beel hold baked goods unsupervised.) 

Mammon sent you a flurry of annoyed texts for something irritating that happened in a class you missed. Belphie wrote you a more accurate version of what happened to piss off Mammon in class, his acerbic wit roasting Mammon’s antics. 

Satan’s text is short, only to tell you that he took proper notes for you, since Belphie and Mammon were too busy _goofing off_. Asmo's latest message is a photo of his pouty face, holding up a hand with all five fingers up. It doesn't quite look like he's waving. Cinching your brows together with confusion, a notification from Levi pops up on the screen before you have a chance to respond.

Levi has sent you a link to a TSL fanwork, about thirty-thousand words in length, with an eerily similar situation to your own as the summary. You close _fevered_ before you even get past the first chapter detailing Henry's mishaps in the witch's flower garden, blushing madly as he collapses to the floor in the Lord of Fools’ arms. At your ‘ _what the hell’_ text, he immediately sends back three LOLs in a row. 

Thank you, Levi.

...There are no messages from Lucifer. 

Unable to help it, hurt spikes in your chest and you glare at his contact page. A few quick swipes across the keyboard later, your thumb hovers over the _send_ button. Before you have a chance to talk yourself out of it, you press down on the screen. The phone _whooshes_ quietly as it sends the message, and you resolutely lock the screen. 

He can't ignore you forever. 

You stifle the frustration bubbling in your chest. You might be worried about him, but _you're_ still the one that nearly died. There are things you need to talk about until you can truly feel at peace with it all, but he has to be _around_ for that. Slapping your cheeks to get your mind off the eldest brother, you hop out of bed. 

A shower should help.

Your phone buzzes as you climb out, and you're a little sheepish at how rapidly your hand whips out to check. 

Beel has texted back a happy demon emoji, and you bite down on your lip as you smile even as another furious blush rises to your cheeks when you think of last night. You're not sure why you feel so shy when there's no one else in the room with you. 

...Although, now that you think about it, the silence of the room is unusual _and_ concerning when you've had at least one of the brothers at your side this entire time. 

(The unbidden thought, filled with worry, rises to your mind: _what are they up to_?) 

Sifting through the folded basket of clothes one of them had prepared for you, you toss on undergarments, a loose silky shirt, and a pair of shorts. Finally fit to investigate your solitude, you shiver again as the cold air of the hallway hits you, goosebumps rising on your bare arms. The cool sensation is a relief to your warmer than normal skin, so you brave the house rather than changing.

The House of Lamentation is eerily quiet, the carpet under your feet muffling your footsteps even further. 

No one is directly outside your door, but looking down the hall, you notice a small sitting area near the entrance. 

Book and display cases line the alcove walls, two large armchairs and a low, circular table with a chess board on it resting by the wall take up most of the space. In one of the seats, facing towards you, sits Belphie. Belphie offers a casual wave from his seat, which you return, bemused. Cautiously, you walk closer. 

Belphie has the chessboard set up in front of him, both colors in various places around the field. Is Belphie playing against someone? You thought everyone was at RAD—a quick look around shows that Belphie is indeed, alone. 

"Are you okay?" You ask, unsure what to make of the scene before you.

"Shouldn't I be asking that of you?" Belphie tilts his head up at you, the smile on his face amused enough, but it actually sets you on edge. This entire situation is… strange. 

"I'm fine," you say, “May I join you?” 

Belphie waves his hand at the opposite seat with a flourish.

His favorite pillow is propped up like an inanimate competitor, you watch for his expression when you pick it up. When Belphie shows no outward reaction, you take a seat and hold the pillow in your lap, like you’ve seen him do a thousand times. Silence passes as Belphie continues to play chess against… himself, it seems. 

“So… what are you doing?” 

"Lucifer has us making sure no one tries to come and have their wicked way with you." Belphie shrugs his shoulders, moving one of his pawns. 

Unfortunately, it has moved it right in the warpath of the opposing team's bishop, “Like Beel and Mammon, I’m guarding you.” There’s a hint of mischief when he says his brothers’ names, and you’re sure he’s got an inkling of what their _guarding you_ has been like. 

“But what are _you_ doing,” you insist, willing your blush to fade at his teasing. 

Belphie's black bishop claims the white pawn, only to be taken out by a white knight. A solid trap, the white pawn believes it’s taken a step forward, but in reality it only steps right into its demise. You’re less than average at chess, you might have made the same mistake, but Belphie must have known this would happen, considering he's playing… both? Your brain hurts to think about how many moves ahead Belphie must be trying to plan.

"Isn't it obvious? Playing chess." Belphie says, and your cheeks flush at the almost sardonic answer. 

Belphie's prickly exterior is challenging to navigate sometimes. You find yourself flustered by it on a good day, but to try and get in Belphie's head when you're still struggling to keep your own on? 

It was easier when Belphie was still trying to find his footing, an almost _cute_ sheepishness to his actions. Now that he's feeling better about his newfound freedom, and finally seems to believe Lucifer isn't about to lock him up in another room… 

He’s a bastard. An absolute teasing _bastard_ , you grin to yourself, somehow fond of this sharper edged side of him despite your negative experiences with the worst of it. It's a different dynamic from the rest of his brothers. _Sure_ , he agreed to a pact with you, drowns you in affection, and demands your attention like his brothers do—but it's complicated.

You've had less time with him, only scant, brief conversations lined with lies in the beginning leading to the spectacular supernova of his escape and the revelation of your lineage. It had devastating effects, and each day feels like an attempt to heal the rifts caused by those cataclysmic events. 

Your relationship with him does not have the gradual development that you'd experienced with the other brothers. Much of Belphie still remains a mystery to you. A part of you, the _rational_ part that Lucifer seems to think is on a _permanent vacation_ , wonders if it should stay that way, considering that he did _actually_ kill you. 

At the very least, Belphie has seemingly leaned into atoning for what he’s done, aggressively chasing your affections as hard as his brothers. The switch was so sudden, but you’ve yet to see any indication that it’s a ruse. Perhaps this is just his true personality: Belphie and his uncanny ability to flip between being affectionate and syrupy sweet to an antagonistic, teasing bastard faster than you can blink.

(Maybe that’s even part of his charm, you’ve thought before, watching him play-fight with his brothers like they’re unruly puppies.)

He seems engrossed in his match, lazily dragging white pieces around the board, while making sure to properly pick up and place the black pieces. Almost… almost as if he is attempting to play as two different people? The sight is so curious that you find your famous nosiness getting the best of you. 

"Are you pretending to play against yourself? Doesn't it get too complicated when you know every move your opponent is going to make?"

"The rest of them will be delighted to know that you’re feeling well enough to be nosy again,” Belphie says, fist tucked under his chin, elbow propped up on his thigh as he observes the board. He chuckles at your wrinkled nose in response. 

"Hilarious. If you make me ask a third time, I'm just going to go back to my room to play games on my phone and you can… keep on doing whatever this is," You cock your brow, challenging him as you flap your hand at the board. Belphie’s expression clearly reads how troublesome, but some part of him relents. 

"It's just something I used to do when I was imprisoned." You never thought you’d be hearing about the experience from Belphie’s own lips, but you’re not about to say anything, just in case it scares him away.

At your curious silence, Belphie continues. 

“I don’t mind being alone, I’m used to it. But in the beginning… I was _upset_ , to put it mildly. Lucifer, trying to be _kind_ possibly, would bring me materials to bide my time,” Belphie says this with utter nonchalance, as if he were describing the weather rather than the potential end of the Human Realm at his hands, “I would tear up the books he brought, stain the walls with paints he left… so on and so forth.” 

When had your curiosity for Belphie's existence begun? Was it when you first heard him ? Or was it even earlier than that: the first time you heard him call out for help? 

_Something_ about him had continually pulled you up the stairs to his prison despite Lucifer’s thinly veiled threats. 

“I don’t know if Lucifer truly believes I’m a child or it was a terrible joke, but there was an assortment of logic puzzles. I finished them within a week. The board was already in the room, gathering dust in a cupboard. I was going to destroy it too but…”

“Chess is an old game,” Belphie muses, looking fondly at the piece in his fingers, rubbing his thumb over the intricate carvings of the pawn’s base, “Humans have changed the rules so many times.” He looks far away here, caught in some memory that you’re not privy to. 

“I found playing against myself to be more preferable than _knitting,_ which I can’t believe Lucifer even _considered_ ,” Belphie huffs, and he’s right, because you can’t imagine him with knitting needles either. Belphie speaking so openly about his experience is both intriguing and concerning, devoid of his usual smart remarks. It’s almost as if you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"Speaking of my dear brother," Belphie's smile is nothing but polite, even if there's an edge to his words as he watches you for your reaction, “You have to hate him a little, don’t you?"

Your brows shoot up in shock, lips turning downward at Belphie's words. 

Ah, the other shoe.

" _Hate him_?" 

He's got a sharp tongue and an often derisive sense of humor; you think it’s at least eighty percent bluster. You _hope_ it is. The last time you were wrong about Belphie, there were some exciting consequences. Belphie cocks a brow at you. He remains silent, letting you piece together a response.

"I understand why he did it,” is the neutral, careful answer you settle on.

"Understanding and hatred are not mutually exclusive." He says, his black queen dancing away from a white rook's attack. "I _understand_ why Lucifer locked me away. That doesn't make me hate it any less. His attempts to soften the blow might have even made it worse for me." His grasp on the queen is so tense that it almost breaks in his hand; he places it on the new position on the board with a soft tap, surprisingly delicate for his severe hold. 

"Just as I was furious that I was locked away by my own brother, you are allowed to be angry by someone else having to make a choice for you." Belphie remains one of the harder brothers to read. Even Lucifer’s obstinance is now more familiar than the unpredictable curve of Belphie’s lips.

"There was no choice," you say, clutching Belphie's pillow in your lap as you peer down at the game. 

"That’s a convenient answer, isn’t it?" Belphie says, voice light. 

"Are we still talking about me?" You ask, exercising caution in your words. Belphie's eyes widen before he laughs ruefully. 

"Point taken." Belphie muses, and then, he exhales. All the tension you hadn’t realized was there slumps out of his shoulders. 

"Sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed like I did,” Belphie leans back in his armchair, an almost awkward, bashful grimace on his face. You blink, once again knocked off balance. 

"I don't hate Lucifer," you say, attempting to relax into yours. Belphie's pillow in your arms is less of a shield than you'd intentionally meant it to be now, and you rest your chin on it. “I hate how he seems to think he’s the one that has to handle everything.” 

Belphie tilts his head to the side, "I used to think Beel was the only one who understood how I felt, just by being my twin. I think you do as well now, but I don’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse, really.” Belphie taps his chin, thinking deeply for a moment. 

"I don't hate him either," he shrugs his shoulders, deciding on his final answer.

Muffling the snort that escapes your lips into the pillow, you exhale, "Now, if only he’d talk to me. It couldn’t have been _that_ awful for him." You try to keep up the pretense of just being irritated, or even some level of aloofness, because that's _easier_ than facing the tremor of vulnerability at your core. Thankfully, Belphie does not comment on your bluster. 

Belphie sniffs, "He's made the executive decision, even if that's the last thing either of you wants because he believes it’s _what’s best for you_. Lucifer lives in a hell of his own creation."

Belphie narrows his eyes at the board, before crossing his arms and sighing again, "How troublesome." 

“You _were_ trying to destroy the Human Realm,” you manage to joke, breath held for Belphie’s reaction. 

“Everyone has bad days,” Belphie comments nonchalantly, and laughter bubbles from somewhere inside you, feeling a little like relief. 

A beat of silence passes before realization dawns in Belphie’s eyes, and the corner of his lips quirks up in a smirk, "I'm sure Satan would be offended to know we're having a Formerly Anti-Lucifer League meeting without him."

Grinning, you shrug your shoulders, "Does it even count as a proper Formerly Anti-Lucifer League meeting if Satan isn't here?"

Belphie laughs this time, and you admire the crinkling of his eyes when he does so. The conversation hits an awkward lull. Shivering slightly in the chill of the hall, you extend the offer now that Belphie's not seemingly out for blood. 

“Do you want to bring it back to the room? You don’t have to play alone now that I’m awake,” you offer. 

“I guess it can’t be helped,” Belphie says, casually shrugging as he doesn’t notice you hesitating in place, “If you get sick again Lucifer will have my head.” 

( _“I guess it can’t be helped_ ,” the hand brushes a lock of hair from your face.)

However, he _does_ hesitate when you blurt, “Were you in my dreams?” 

There’s a flicker of _something_ on Belphie’s face; surprise at being caught, maybe? The memory of the nightmare comes back to you in a rush—of the locked doors, the panic—but most of all, Belphie’s voice, clear as day as it ripped through your fears.

“Yeah,” he admits, watching you intently as he gauges your reaction. 

“Thank you,” you breathe, and you mean it. He looks... _relieved_? Leaning over the pillow, you begin helping Belphie clean up the pieces, tucking them back in their decorative box. 

"I don’t get why you’re all the way out _here_ , though. You're always welcome for a cuddle.” Belphie blinks, a slight pink blush appearing at the apples of his cheeks, and you want to laugh at how unexpectedly shy these lords of hell can all be. 

“Is that an invitation into your bed?” He drawls, and you can’t help the amused grin on your own face. 

“Have you ever needed one?” You joke, but it’s also a serious question. You’ve cuddled with Belphie and Beel loads of times, but as the words leave your mouth, you realize that this would be the first time the two of you were truly alone.

“Did you _want_ me there?” Belphie asks, after a moment’s hesitation. The honesty surprises you, and you tilt your head at him. Your response almost comes out as another question, part of this back and forth, never _quite_ giving an answer.

Instead, it comes out as a statement: “You thought I wouldn’t.” 

Part of you feels like you might have expected this, that his answer is _yes, no, I don’t know_ , unspoken, but still said in how Belphie awkward fiddles with a white rook in his fingers. 

Beel and Mammon have been barging into your room and into your space for _months_ at this point. There has never been an ulterior, unknowable motive in Beel and Mammon’s soft touches, in the manner that they chase for your affection like puppies. Belphie is a different matter altogether, and you are both acutely aware of the strange cracks in your interactions. 

It makes sense for Belphie, who sometimes feels like an outsider in his own home still, to linger at a distance. It makes sense for Belphie to wait for _permission_. 

Most surprising of all, it’s _your_ permission he’s waiting on. 

You get a glimpse of the devil that stood in front of you at Diavolo’s party—Belphie in his demon form, shifting on the balls of his feet as he extended his hand out to you, the promise of a pact on his lips. At the time, his tail had lashed against the grass with nerves, strange determination in the jut of his chin as his power welcomed your touch.

The smile that Belphie gives you now is more fragile, brittle around the edges like he wants to lash out in discomfort, but is actively stifling the urge. 

“I do want you there.” The admission sucks the air out of your lungs, Belphie’s lips parting in surprise. 

“Are you insane?” He asks, but his question seems to startle him more than you, like he can’t believe he said that out loud. 

“Maybe a little worked up from the pollen, but no more than usual.” It’s the truth, you can say with confidence and an amused smirk. Belphie can’t help his wry amusement at your double entendre. You continue on, braver than before, “This is why you wanted to make a pact with me, right?” 

Belphie is still playing with the white rook in his hands, gaze nervously shifting away, “I don’t think anyone could have predicted this whole sex pollen predicament. That kind of planning is more Barbatos’ style, don’t you think?” He’s _deflecting_.

You rise from your seat, as if pulled by an invisible string. 

It tugs you towards Belphie, whose eyes flash back to you, watching you with a mixture of apprehension and interest. Lowering your own voice to just above a whisper, as if this is a secret only meant for the two of you to hear, you continue.

“Your brothers and I had our own reasons for making pacts. I didn’t ask you for this. You gave it to me.” Moving until you stand in front of him in the chair, between his spread knees. A hand extends out, plucking the white rook from Belphie’s hands and peering at it yourself, before looking back down at him. The other hand rises to place its palm against his face, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. 

Belphie’s laughter rattles his chest. 

“You’re terrifying,” he confesses, even as he tilts his face into your cupped palm on his cheek. 

His long, thick lashes flutter, lips forming each word with care, “I don’t know how my brothers are all so calm about the fact that you’re quite possibly the most terrifying thing we’ve ever faced.” Despite the possible insult, Belphie’s voice confirms it’s a compliment. Belphie’s expression looks like adoration, his smile is enamored. 

“I… want to be near you. If you’ll have me,” Belphie says, and it’s quiet for a brief second before you give into the urge.

When you kiss him, he melts into it as much as you do, desperate in a way that’s easy to match. Belphie explores your mouth with the intensity of a dehydrated man allowed to drink freely from the oceans, so contrary to his usual lazy nature. 

But Belphie’s hands still hover over your sides, unsure if he can touch you. With a frustrated tch, you grab his hands and squeeze, pushing them against your body. He blinks in surprise at your forcefulness, before it turns into a fond, rueful grin. 

"And you're _so_ cute," Belphie sighs, "Fragile, pretty human. It's no wonder they all want to keep you for themselves."

Narrowing your eyes, you push halfheartedly at him while blushing still. "And you don't?" You bite the words out. 

"Oh, no. I'm great at sharing. Beel's been taking my food since we were children." The endearing image of the twins that flashes through your mind is unbearably cute. You wish there were photos.

"I'm not food," you say, exasperated. 

“That doesn’t make me want to eat you any less,” Belphie smirks. 

“Yeah?” You ask, but the smirk on your face matches his. Reaching out to grab Belphie’s hand from where it rests on your waist, you slide it under your shirt, placing it at the waistband of your shorts, “Go ahead.” 

“You’re messing with me, aren’t you? You’re quite brave,” Despite his accusation, something has settled between the two of you. 

Perhaps there’s still more to be worked through, but Belphie’s smile looks a little less tense, your shoulders a little more relaxed. A step in the right direction, if you’ve ever seen one. Belphie stares at you with a little bit of the same wonder that each of the brothers look at you with as he laughs. 

The heat of his touch on your exposed skin grows in fervor as Belphie’s fingers hook under the waistband of your shorts, pulling them down. Desire hums in your belly, and your nails dig into Belphie’s shoulders as he helps you step out of them. It’s an easy, natural feat to climb into Belphie’s lap then, your legs on either side of him in the chair. Kissing him feels even better, even when you can feel the hard line of his cock through his pants and Belphie kisses like he’s got all the time in the world. 

Firmly seated in his lap, his arms holding you in place, you know that this won’t satisfy you for long. 

Grinding your hips down against his clothed cock, you dig your nails insistently into his back; at first, all the reaction that incites is a soft keening against your mouth. Belphie shudders a little when you twist his hair in your hands, tugging it softly. 

“Ah, you’re gonna make me blush, touching me that much…” Belphie grins, but a moment of doubt crosses his face. “Are you sure? I’m not gentle like Beel,” Belphie says, and the hand that grazes over your hip grabs onto it, tightens briefly in warning. 

He hisses at your touch, nails just slightly digging into your hips. Belphie alternates between getting caught up in wanting to hold you tightly and remembering your fragility as a human—the constant, jarring acknowledgement of your power imbalance is _annoying_ , you decide.

You huff, the heady power of sitting in Belphie’s lap rivalling the heat of the pollen as you look down at him through lidded eyes. Even with all his explorative, almost worshipful touches, Belphie is at your mercy—licking your lips, you reach between the two of you to free his cock from his pants, spreading the precum beading you find at the tip with your thumb. 

Shifting until you’re poised above it, the hand stroking his cock slides the head around your entrance. Your free hand covers his own where it rests lightly on your hips, squeezing it once as you spread the wetness from your cunt onto his length. 

“Do I still seem unsure?” You ask, words tight in your throat as you hover over his cock, daring him to answer, “You’re allowed to touch me.” 

“But what if I—” Belphie begins, but his words cut off into a choked noise as you sink down onto the tip. Clenching your muscles around the head, you lower your hips to take an inch or so of him in—the moan you drag from his lips when you roll your hips off him again is _phenomenal_. 

“That’s not fair,” he hisses again, eyes screwing shut as he finally, _finally_ grabs your hips. 

“When have you ever been known to play fair?” you murmur, voice deceitfully demure. Belphie narrows his eyes at you, even if he can’t keep the wry smile from twisting his lips. 

Unable to help yourself, you linger in the moment to try and focus on the steady hum of the pollen. It cearly reacts to Belphie’s touch on your body and the lust in your mind, but… like with Mammon and Beel, you’re relieved to know that this is you. Despite Belphie’s questioning, you are in your right mind. You _want_ this, and Belphie seems to watch it too. 

You would be disappointed to miss the salacious sight of Belphie staring up at you through the locks of hair that fall into his face to some stupid flower’s influence. You take this moment to tug your shirt off, yanking at the hem of Belphie’s until he follows suit. Taking full advantage of the permission you’ve given him, he runs his hands over your sides, across your now exposed back. 

The pleasant, tingling sensation his touch leaves across your skin triggers a shiver up your back, goosebumps rising on your arms. Licking your lips, you lower your hips onto the rest of his length until you’re bottomed out on his cock. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Belphie groans, burying his face in your collarbone, arms wrapped around your waist and holding you still. As he’s fully seated within you, when Belphie’s hips gently grind up into yours, you can’t help the drawn out gasp with each motion. 

Your hands card through his hair, pulling his face up to mash your lips together. He whines when you pull on his hair, and you note that fact down for later. 

Fairly quickly, you learn how Belphie is wilder than his brothers. 

It comes as a slight surprise, considering his sleepy personality and his status as the youngest of them all. You’d assumed that Belphie would be more of a laid back lover, but the ferocity of his touches betrays a more aggressive nature. The phrase _riding the bull_ comes to mind, but you wave it away. With as much effort as Belphie is putting into controlling himself, there’s still an unrestrained, boisterous undercurrent, like Belphie is _this_ close to getting lost in you. 

“I can’t believe how good you feel,” Belphie says, a salacious grin on his lips between sloppy, intoxicating kisses, “You’re so _tight_.”

It’s obvious that Belphie is holding back his strength--you can feel the difference when his control ebbs and he gets swept up in you. He nips at your mouth mid-kiss almost hard enough to break skin, chases for every taste of you he can get. You wonder what it says about you that you _like_ when that happens, when Belphie’s hold around your waist or on your hip gets a little too rough. It’s intriguing to watch Belphie toe this line, and equally comforting to know that you aren’t helpless should it ever become too much. 

Ah, but Belphie kisses you with the drunken, loving pace of someone that can’t get enough. You have nothing to fear, here.

You should have expected this, but his wicked tongue comes back into play fairly quickly, more talkative than the other two—curses slip from his lips when you squeeze or roll your hips in an especially tantalizing way. He showers you in honeyed, sinful praise as you bounce on his cock, his explorative hands cupping your breasts in his hands. The aforementioned wicked tongue flicks out at your nipple, teeth gently grazing the sensitive nub, while his hand cups and tweaks the other. 

“You’re _dripping_ ,” Belphie hums appreciatively, one of his hands grabbing your ass, his fingers dipping into the space slick with your joining. Those two filthy words are just some of many that Belphie whispers, narrating the experience as if you’re not overwhelmed enough _already_. 

Riding Belphie in an armchair, while hot in theory, may have been overzealous of you in your still weakened state. You’re embarrassed to find that your thighs tremble from the strain, clenching your jaw as you try to keep your steady pace. As well-rested as you are, there are limitations being forced on your body, but you’re not quite ready to admit it. 

Unfortunately for you, Belphie notices almost immediately. 

“Are you tired?” Belphie asks, without any teasing hint to his voice. 

“I’m fi—” 

Before you can deny anything, he lifts you off his lap like you weigh nothing, helping you stand upright. Afterwards, you let him move your body as he likes, and Belphie bends you over the wide armrest of the chair. 

“I should be taking care of you, anyway,” He murmurs at your ear, his low drawl sending shivers up your spine. 

Despite his earlier warning that he isn’t gentle like Beel, Belphie takes almost agonizing care with your body, running his hands up and down your exposed skin. Once you step out of the offending garments, he helps lift your bent leg up onto the armrest until you’re steadied on one leg instead of both. The position heats your cheeks with how vulnerable you are, spread open like this, sparing a moment’s shame to remember that you’re both still in a common area. 

The shame is quickly shoved to the back of your mind—probably locked up in the same place as your shame for Beel fucking you on a kitchen table, honestly—as Belphie presses the head of his cock back at the entrance of your cunt. 

Though he was gentle helping you into this position, Belphie thrusts his entire cock in you with little preamble. With nothing to muffle your cries, you bite down on the inside of your cheek to stifle the shout. 

_Oh_ , this angle is _new_. 

Your toes curl against the carpet, back arching further and head tilted back as a low groan leaves your lips. Bent over you from behind, Belphie presses a hot, biting kiss that’s reminiscent of Beel’s nibbling against your shoulder. 

“Ah, shit, that’s—” you say, glancing over your shoulder and hesitating as Belphie licks his lips when he catches your gaze. His hips buck experimentally, and when you moan again, a slow, delighted smile crosses his face. With the quiet gasps and moans slipping from your mouth, Belphie increases the strength of his thrusts until he finds where you can _just_ handle the force, and holds you on that precipice. 

After a few minutes like this, the muscle in your calf strains to hold you upright, the discomfort cutting through the other delightful sensations. 

“Belphie, wait, my leg is tired—” you laugh breathily, trying to bring your other leg down from the wide armrest. Instead, Belphie grunts against your shoulder, reaching to shift your weight up, until your toes barely brush against the floor. 

“Let me help,” Belphie says, and the way he mumbles it directly against your skin has you squeezing around him. There’s a teasing lilt to his words when he speaks again, though the obscene, low cadence of his voice is dangerous, “Weren’t you the one that said you’re well-rested?” 

Another particularly hard thrust has you crying out before you can answer, hand slipping against the upholstery and you fall forward. Belphie's grip on you is firm, however, and he wraps one arm around your waist, easily holding you close as he keeps his brutal, overwhelming pace. 

With no real purchase on the armrest or either of your legs keeping you up, you're left completely at Belphie's mercy. At least Belphie seems too caught up in his own lust to tease, holding almost tight enough to hurt as he fucks you. The initial surprise at being completely reliant on Belphie's strength fades with each wave of pleasure, and you allow yourself to get lost in the weightless sensation.

Each of Belphie’s thrusts toe the line between pleasure and pain. You don’t have an exact idea for how long Belphie fucks you like this, only that it’s hard to string proper sentences together. 

He seems to be appreciative of whatever noises are worked out of you, despite your best efforts to bite down on them as they escape. 

With one sudden, shifting moment, Belphie lifts you off the armrest and straightens your bent leg. Both your feet touch the ground, but Belphie is still bending you against the armrest, waiting for you to prop yourself up on your elbows. 

“I want to touch you,” he tempts against your ear, sliding his hand around your front to dip between your legs. Spreading your legs to give Belphie better access, two fingers dip into the wetness dripping down from your cunt—Belphie exhales through his nose. It shouldn’t be a surprise, considering he can feel how wet you are just from being inside him, but he still looks delighted. 

“Eager, aren’t we?” He says, but you buck your hips back at him. 

“You talk too much.” No, _please_ keep talking. 

Belphie spares a moment to laugh at your comment, before focusing his attention back on pleasing you. 

“Look at you,” he murmurs, slowly rubbing circles around your sensitive clit. Stifling a gasp at his touch, your legs quiver as he resumes his deep pace, albeit agonizingly slower. The reduced pace allows you to feel the full drag of his cock and appreciate how it fills you. His hand splays across your upper abdomen, holding you back against his chest. 

“Faster,” you choke out, and Belphie’s hands barely hesitate. “ _Harder_.”

“What was that?” He asks, tilting his ear towards you accommodatingly, as if he somehow hadn’t heard you. 

You reach a hand up to fist in his hair and pull him forward to kiss you, your teeth clicking against his with the momentum. Belphie hums into the messy kiss, his hand increasing its pace. Even when you part for air, you refuse to let go of Belphie’s hair, making sure to stare him straight in the face. 

“I-... I don’t want to cum to your teasing,” you glare, struggling to find the words, “I want you to cum while you _fuck_ me.” 

It’s bold, bold enough to make Belphie suck in a breath through his teeth. He laughs, then, but it’s too low to be anything but dangerous—

“I guess it can’t be helped,” Belphie whispers in your ear. 

“I’ll take _good_ care of you.” 

True to his word, Belphie is quick to bring you to the edge with a dastardly mix of his words, dexterous fingers, and steady, almost brutal pace. Even so, nothing prepares you for the intensity of your body seizing up with the force of your orgasm when it finally crashes over you.

It rips a shout from your lungs that would have surely attracted the attention of the others were they home. 

Belphie dutifully fucks you through your climax, your head tossed back against him as he bites down on your shoulder, sucking an angry mark into the skin. The pain from Belphie’s teeth is a welcome contrast to the pleasure. He teases the nipple of the breast in his other hand, his nose tucking behind your ear to murmur some form of praise that your brain can’t currently make sense of. 

If you were a demon, you’d have clawed through the armchair cushion—instead, you crush Belphie’s hand in what would be a bruising grip as you scramble to pull it away from your oversensitive clit. 

Belphie doesn’t complain, but his praise does subside in favor of quiet grunts, quickened thrusts, hot kisses against your skin. Dazed and loose from your own orgasm, you murmur your own scattered, nonsensical praise for Belphie as well, and he practically purrs at the attention. 

It doesn’t take long until there’s a stutter in his pace. He gasps your name into your hair, and with one final, deep thrust, he cums as well. 

Afterwards, as you’re catching your breath, you stretch your limbs horizontally over the armchair. A hand drops to play at Belphie’s hair as he sits on the floor in front of the chair, head lolled back onto the seat cushion for your attention. The sweat on your skin has cooled, but it’s a soothing contrast to the warm, humming sensation in your legs. 

“It’s funny,” you say, eyes closed as your orgasm loosened lips murmur, “I only ever imagined sex with you in a bed.” 

Belphie shifts away from your hand, and you open your eyes in time to see him rising to hover over you, arms on either side of you on the chair. Nuzzling his nose against the skin by your ear, his voice is syrupy sweet, dripping with implication as he whispers. 

“You _imagined_ it?” The sound of it has your breath catching in your throat, heart rate skyrocketing as Belphie gazes down at you with lidded, wanting eyes. 

“I’m sure that could be arranged,” Belphie hums, reaching to cup your chin in his hand and tilt your face to meet his lips. 

A moment of _what? already?_ crosses your mind, even as your traitorous limbs seem to shiver at the possibility of being touched again. Realization settles on your shoulders. Oh _right_ , you snort. 

Demon stamina. 

A slow, wicked smile creeps onto Belphie's face. His hand is pressed enticingly to the curve of your waist, warmth of his touch impossible even through his cardigan wrapped around you. He leans in, whispering as if he is sharing a secret between the two of you.

"Do you want to fuck in Lucifer's study?" 

You stare at him, lips parted in shock—the silence stretches between you, but Belphie's intense stare does not waver. He _means_ it, you realize, and your face flushes bright red. Just as you're about to stammer a response, Belphie bursts into laughter. 

"Your _face_!" Belphie throws his arms around you in a very Beel-like bear hug, mashing his face into the top of your hair. Squeaking, your arms come up steady yourself on his waist, hiding your burning face in his chest, "You believed me, didn't you—"

Considering your partner for the morning, you inevitably end up back in bed. 

Belphie _does_ take a long, lingering look down the hallway in the general direction of Lucifer’s study, but your insistent hands shove him towards your temporary bedroom. 

Despite Belphie’s bare chest being almost uncomfortably warm pressed against your back, you’re quite content to stay where you are. His head lolls against your shoulder as you idly scroll through Devilgram. 

“What happened to that invitation for, what was it, a _cuddle_?” Belphie complains, blowing a puff of air into your ear—he’s clearly trying to tug you both to your sides for a nice nap, but your refusal to lay down and the bright light of your DDD is preventing him from doing so. 

“You know, if you don’t give me some attention, I’m gonna fall asleep…” He says, and a smile quirks your lips at the other’s whining, one hand reaching back to tweak his nose. 

Belphie scrunches his face, hiding in the nape of your neck at the attack. Though he’s thousands of years older than you, there are unmistakable _youngest sibling_ qualities about the seventh born that you can’t help but find hilarious. Your guess is that his clinginess may be part of him following after his brothers’ examples in their home’s new dynamic. It’s an almost childish desire for attention—whether it be for you or his brothers. 

“Don’t whine,” you chide, turning your head to look at him, “Aren’t you the reason I’m so well-rested and awake to begin with?” You tap your fingers against the wrist of the hand that brushed hair from your face to drive your point. 

Belphie, surprisingly, says nothing. You get the distinct feeling he’s pleased by your words, but you’re not sure how you know. He wraps his arms around your waist, pressing his face into your shoulder. His hair tickles your neck, holding tighter when you wriggle in his arms and laugh at the wispy sensation. 

After a moment, you settle, phone lost somewhere under the covers. As if feeling the second you relent, Belphie tugs you down into the covers and molds his body to the curves of your own. 

Maybe a nap wouldn’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this fic, we have a magical space where I try to give belphie an actual progression of antagonist to tentative friends to _ahhh mc ahhhh <3<3<3_. I think the peak Belphie interactions would come just after MC helps him integrate with his brothers, just as it starts to really click why all his brothers are so smitten by this human. 
> 
> I wanted to just write teasing bastard belphie giving mc the good dick and lean into it at face value… but it was hard for me to reasonably add belphie (the guy that KILLS mc) to a fic that focuses so heavily on trust/recovery without touching base on past issues that would make it difficult for both of them to accept/feel comfortable with what’s happening. 
> 
> belphie is an incredibly complicated character to write, I don’t trust people that say writing him is easy >:U there is nothing easy about mc and belphie navigating the incredibly tender and complicated route to true forgiveness/acceptance of each other. 
> 
> I mainly just wanted mc and belphie to interact in ways other than cuddling/being physically in a bed, because while i understand it’s a big part of Belphie™, i like imagining them in other situations pfff 
> 
> I talk too much. 
> 
> Anyway the next full chapter is coming along swimmingly but i can’t make promises anymore because quarantine is messing with my sense of time :3c ? 
> 
> [smooches u all.](https://indiavolojones.tumblr.com/)


	6. LESSON 4A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **before reading this, please read the previous chapter! this is 4A, not 4.**
> 
> **thank you!**

* * *

**37**

Hey, I'm back at RAD. 

This is stupid. 

Why am I even going? You can go back in my place! 

_[Thumbs up emoji]_

Levi, are you telling me you want to stay at school? 

Are you okay? Beel's worried you're not eating enough. 

SHUT UP!

There's just no point in me going.

She's not going to want me to be near her when she's like this!

I mean, I killed her, and she still slept with me.

JSBSHDHHDHHHDF

* * *

" _Belphie._ " Beel says, a disapproving look on his face as he peers over his twin's shoulder. Belphie sighs and rolls his eyes. 

* * *

**37**

Beel is telling me to apologize, but you have to admit, I have a point. 

Should I tell Lucifer you're skipping out or are you?

I hate you. I hate all of you. 

* * *

Beel tilts his head, "You tried, at least."

"How troublesome," Belphie slips his phone in his pocket, but even Beel can see the smile on his brother’s lips. Their connection as twins proves its potency once again, as Beel acutely senses the burst of doubt from where Belphie walks alongside him.

Belphie stares down at his hands, wonders if his brother truly understands how thoroughly this human has shaken their world. How different they all are, as if the last year has somehow completely changed the trajectory of whatever meteor was meant to destroy everything they have. 

How _fine_ they seem with it. Are they not concerned? Is he just freaking out because he’s still struggling to adjust? Is it how heavy forgiveness rests on his shoulders? _Is_ it forgiveness, or is it one step of a one hundred towards it, of one thousand? One _million_? 

The pact burns in Belphie’s chest. Her soft gasps echo in his mind, and Belphie does not feel like he deserves the salvation that it seems to bring. Not like the rest of them.

“Belphie.” Jerked out of his thoughts, Belphie looks at his brother. Beel’s got one hand on Belphie’s shoulder, and Belphie stifles the urge to shake off his brother’s supportive gesture. He doesn’t, though, because the wounded animal look on Beel’s face would be _unbearable_. 

“Are you okay?” 

Belphie nervously twirls a lock of his own hair, an unconscious act. "Is this really alright, Beel?" Belphie asks, his voice almost too soft to be heard amidst the bustle of the campus. 

“Probably,” Beel shrugs. He knows what Belphie’s referring to, but he’s not quite sure what would bring Belphie the most comfort in this situation. Belphie grimaces. 

“Humans are _fragile_.” Belphie says, but the force in his voice is bravado that Beel easily sees past. 

With those three words, Belphie’s fears are laid out on the table, a several course meal of doubts and insecurity. Belphie still closes his eyes and sees the oppressive four walls, can feel the red haze of desperation, a dripping, malevolent hatred that sharpens _everything._

The human they have chosen (or that chose them? No one is quite sure anymore.) is ridiculous and foolish. 

The time Belphie spent in that locked room will stretch in his mind for eons, the complete opposite of how the years he wants to spend with her will pass by in the blink of an eye. Terrifyingly, Belphie can tell it will never be enough, there is not enough vitality in her human life to satiate the desires, the adoration of _seven_ Lords of Hell--

“I’m hungry,” Beel suddenly says, placing his hand on his stomach. Jerked out of his thoughts, Belphie tilts his head, only a huff escaping him when Beel continues, “I won’t ever be full.” 

“That doesn’t mean I can’t savor something for as long as I have it with me.” He frowns a little at the end, Belphie’s eyes as wide as dinner plates. 

“You _don’t_ savor things, Beel,” Belphie points out the flaw in Beel’s statement, the other quite well known for his tendency to inhale his food. Beel returns a bashful _you caught me!_ smile. 

“I’m trying to learn,” he admits, and there’s a distant, distracted look in his eye for a moment. 

Belphie observes him for a bit, before shaking his head. Even the act of _Beelzebub_ , the Avatar of Gluttony, telling him that he’s trying to savor something is akin to Hell freezing over. Belphie seriously considers checking a thermometer, if only to make sure they’re still at an acceptable temperature. 

“Do you have a food metaphor for everything?” Belphie snorts at his brother’s eccentric honesty--he wonders if he could get Beel to call her a _delicacy_ to her face. Beel shrugs his shoulders, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his uniform.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANYWAY mc is well rested, and just as bored of being bedridden as you all are, let’s go bully levi with love.


End file.
